


Finding Lily

by deedeeinfj



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:26:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/pseuds/deedeeinfj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione makes a special discovery in her attic. Written before the release of OotP and now AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published at The Sugar Quill, 2002

"Hermione, I have another box!"

Hermione’s head snapped up at the sound of her mother’s voice. "Coming, Mum," she called, rifling quickly through the box she’d just carried down from the attic. She and her mother were taking advantage of a lazy Saturday afternoon to do a bit of summer cleaning in the attic, and it was Hermione’s job to sort the contents of the boxes into organized piles. 

This particular box was filled with photographs, and Hermione knew that her mother would have to go through these.  None of these faces looked familiar. She lifted a stack of photographs and stared into the faces of an old man with a large mustache and pipe, a laughing woman, a little girl, and a . . . Hermione paused and went back to the photograph of the girl.  Brow knitted, she studied it for several minutes.

The little girl had red hair, curled adorably into little ringlets that framed her face. She wore a green dress and smiled up at the camera, eyes closed, clutching several daisies in her hands near her nose, as if inhaling their scent. Her nose and cheekbones were sprinkled with freckles.

Hermione grinned.  "Mum?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Where did you get a photo of Ginny Weasley?" Hermione turned the photograph over, but there was no name or date. It also struck her as strange that Ginny Weasley would appear in a non-magical, still photograph. There could be no doubt, however, that the toddler was Ginny.

"A photo of whom?" her mother called back, raising a small cloud of dust as she looked down from the attic.

Hermione climbed the stairs and handed the photograph to her mother. "That’s my friend, Ginny Weasley," she told her mother. "I was just wondering how on earth—"

"No, darling, this is a picture of my best friend," Mrs. Granger replied. "She does look remarkably like Ginny, though, doesn’t she? Do you know, when I saw Ginny that day we went shopping for your supplies, I thought she looked familiar?"

"So this girl was your best friend?" Hermione repeated.

"For a few years," her mother explained with a smile. "She lived next door for a short time, then her family moved again. We were as inseparable as two five-year-old girls could be," she said wistfully, placing the photo into her pocket. "Your grandfather took that picture. I had just picked those flowers for her."

"It’s uncanny how much she looks like Ginny," Hermione mused. "But it was silly, really. I don’t even know what Ginny looked like before she was eleven. I’ll get that other box now."

Several hours later, the small family sat together at dinner. Mr. Granger expressed his pleasure at the progress that they were making in the attic.

"We should be done tomorrow," Hermione’s mother replied. "It’ll be lovely to have everything up there organized. And you never know what you’re going to find! Why, today, Hermione found a picture of Lily."

Hermione’s fork paused in mid-air. "Who, Mum?"

"My friend. The little girl in the picture you found."

"Do you . . . er, do you remember her last name?"

"Evers," replied Mrs. Granger.

Hermione exhaled and almost laughed at herself. To think that her mother—

"Pardon me, Evans. It was Evans."

Hermione’s jaw dropped. "Your best friend was Lily Evans."

"Yes, but why do you look so pale, Hermione? Dear, are you ill?"

"No, Mum. Erm. Where did you put that picture?"

Mr. Granger was looking confusedly at his wife and daughter as Mrs. Granger replied, "Oh, somewhere. There were a lot of photographs in that one box. Hermione, I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you."

"Mum, Lily Evans was Harry’s mother!" Hermione exclaimed. 

"That mate of yours with the scar on his forehead?" her father asked.

"Yes, Harry!"

"Are you certain it’s not a coincidence?" asked Mrs. Granger. "I’m sure Lily Evans is a common enough name . . ."

"But Harry’s mum had red hair," Hermione insisted, her supper forgotten entirely. Neither of her parents looked convinced. Hermione thought for a moment, then asked, "Did Lily have any brothers or sisters?"

"Well, now . . ."  Mrs. Granger looked thoughtful for some moments. "Yes. She had a sister. A horrid sister. I only met her once or twice."

"Her name?" Hermione managed to croak out.

Mrs. Granger laughed. "Her name was Petunia! I remember now, because I always teased Lily about their flower names . . . Her mother loved gardening, and even gave me a lovely little flower book for my birthday."

"Oh, do you still have it?"

"Somewhere, possibly. Are you sure we’re speaking of the same person?"

"We must be," said Hermione excitedly. "Harry has to live with his nasty aunt and uncle . . . and his aunt’s name is Petunia!"

"Perhaps Harry would like to have that photograph," said Mrs. Granger generously. "And I do have other things lying about here and there. When her family moved, Lily gave me a letter and a locket. I’m sure I’ve spotted the locket somewhere recently. And her mother gave me several books and wrote me the sweetest letter."

Hermione beamed, imagining the look on Harry’s face. As soon as she could get away from the table, she bolted to her room and pulled out her quill and parchment.

> _Dear Ron,_
> 
> _You will never believe what happened today! My mum and I were cleaning out the attic, and I found a photo that looks just like your sister. But wait, you won’t ever guess! It’s Harry’s mother!!! She was best friends with my mum when they were just little girls. Mum’s going to try to find some more things she has, like a locket that Harry’s mum gave her, and some books and a letter that Harry’s grandmother gave her. Do you think I should tell Harry now, or wait and see what we can find? Oh, I’m so excited! It’s almost like reading_ Hogwarts: A History _for the very first time!!_
> 
> _Bye,_
> 
> _Hermione_

Hermione woke Pig, who was still almost comatose from having to deliver a box of Chocolate Frogs from Ron. The poor little owl didn’t look pleased when Hermione sent off the letter.

* * *

The following day yielded more treasures than Hermione could have wished for.  At breakfast, Pig arrived looking miserable.  Two letters in twenty-four hours was a little too much, even for a hyper owl like Pig.  Mr. and Mrs. Granger watched with their usual mixed fascination and befuddlement at this method of delivering mail.  Hermione smiled as she unfolded the parchment to read Ron’s messy scrawl.

> _Hermione,_
> 
> _First off, how many times have you read_ Hogwarts: A History _?  I personally think that once is too much for anyone with anything resembling a LIFE.  The fact that you may have read it more than once troubles me deeply.  Second, that is so cool about Harry’s mum!  I think you should find as much stuff as you can, then give him a big surprise.  You should wait till we get back to school, because those nasty people might take everything away from him.  And you should give it to him when he can look at the stuff alone, cause he might start crying or something.  What do you mean, the picture looks like Ginny?  So anyway, who else have you been writing to this summer?  It’s not that important, really.  I was just wondering._
> 
> _Ron_

Hermione smiled, refolded the letter, and put it in her pocket.  "Mum, are you ready to go up to the attic?"

Mrs. Granger raised her napkin to wipe her mouth.  "Certainly.  I’m a little excited about all this myself!  I looked around for this yesterday evening," she said, producing the photograph of Lily Evans.  "I think there’s a lot more to find!"

A few hours later, mother and daughter were sitting cross-legged on the attic floor, both going through boxes and boxes of trash and treasure.  Hermione opened one box and looked up quickly, wrinkling her nose  at the dust that flew into her face.  When the dust cleared, she looked over at her mother, whose thick brown hair was gradually falling from a clip as she sifted through the contents of a box.

            Hermione smiled, feeling suddenly grateful for her mother.  This made her think of Harry—Harry, whose mother had died for him.  She knew that her mother would do the same, but was thankful that she’d never had to.  Her eyes welled, but she blamed that on the dust.  "Mum?" she murmured.

Mrs. Granger did not look up, but replied, "Mmmm?"

Hermione swallowed.  "I’m . . . I’m so glad I have you," she said softly.

At this, Mrs. Granger did look up.  She bit her lip and stared at her daughter.  "Oh, sweetheart."

"It’ll be so nice . . ." Hermione paused as her voice caught.  "It’ll be so nice if we can find some of these things for Harry."  With a renewed purpose, Hermione gave a few sniffles and returned to her work.

Their efforts weren’t rewarded for another hour, when Mrs. Granger said, "Hermione, I found some things.  Here is Mrs. Evans’ letter."  She handed the yellowed paper to her daughter, who took it eagerly.

> _Dear Rose . . ._

            Hermione looked up, puzzled.  "Rose?"

Mrs. Granger chuckled.  "Her nickname for me."

> _Dear Rose,_
> 
> _I’m sorry we have to leave the neighborhood so soon after arriving here, especially when Lily has such a true friend in you.  But Harry has to . . ._   

"Harry’s named for his grandfather," Hermione murmured.

"I noticed that," Mrs. Granger replied.  Her eyes sparkled.  "Keep reading."

> _Harry has to go where his job takes him, I suppose.  Watch out for my small garden for me, won’t you, dear?  I know you are very young.  Your mother might be reading this letter to you.  But I want you to remember us.  I have a feeling that your path will cross Lily’s again, though I can’t know how.  Your friendship is something special, the kind that lasts forever.  Goodbye, dear one._
> 
> _Virginia Evans_

            Hermione’s hand fell into her lap as she stared at her mother.  "Harry’s grandmother was Virginia?" she said in a voice that was no more than a whisper.

Mrs. Granger’s eyes shone as she replied, "We—all the neighborhood children—called her Mrs. Ginny."

Hermione could not swallow the lump in her throat.  She wanted to hug Harry, and she wanted to ki . . . hug Ron.  "Is there more in that box?" she asked.

"Oh, yes."  Mrs. Granger reached into the box and held up a small heart-shaped locket.  Hermione took it with trembling fingers and opened it.  Inside was another picture of Lily Evans, smiling up from the tiny photo with flaming hair and bright green eyes.  Hermione snapped the locket shut and put it with Mrs. Evans’ letter.

"What else?" she asked eagerly.

No more of the items were quite as intensely personal, but there were several children’s books, as well as the child’s gardening book that Mrs. Granger had spoken of already.  Memories of more than thirty years past came to Mrs. Granger, and she told Hermione the story of how Lily had come to give her each book. 

Hermione ached to give these things to Harry, but knew that Ron was right.  She should wait until they got back to school, or wait to see if Harry went to the Burrow at the end of summer. 

They tidied up the attic and stood looking at their handiwork.  Mrs. Granger suddenly raised her hands to her face and started crying softly.

"Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, embracing her mother.  "What’s wrong?"

Mrs. Granger stepped back a little and asked the question she must have been aching to ask for some time.  "What . . . exactly . . . happened to Lily?"

Hermione swallowed and told her mother everything she knew about Lily Evans, which wasn’t much.  How she had gone to Hogwarts and befriended four mischievous young men, finally marrying James Potter and having Harry.  How she had died begging for Harry’s life.

"And this person who killed Lily . . . this is the same person you’ve been frightened of all summer?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Granger enfolded her daughter tightly in her arms.  "Hermione, you have made us so proud.  I want you to be careful this school year.  I couldn’t bear to lose you."  She drew a deep breath and tried to regain her composure.  Smiling broadly through her tears, she said, "I want Harry to have every one of these things.  Lily would be furious if she knew that I kept them from him.  And Lily had some temper, let me assure you."

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I know I’m sending you two owls in one day, but I forgot to tell you that I was just kidding when I said you’re disturbed for reading that book all the time.  And it’s none of my business who you’ve been writing to this summer, but if you wanted to tell me, I wouldn’t mind that much.  You can just send Errol and Pig back together if you want.  If you want, you can write me two letters and give one to each owl.  I don’t want to have to read all that much, but it would make sure one owl wasn’t jealous of the other one.  Anyway, you know what I’m trying to say.  I hope you find a lot of things for Harry.  Let me know.  It’ll probably take a really long letter to tell me about everything you find, won’t it?  That’s okay.  It’ll be a nice break from reading_ Hogwarts: A History _._
> 
> _Ron_
> 
> _P.S.  I’m not really reading H: AH. . . . But I don’t think there’s anything wrong if some people like to read it._


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione pushed her eggs around her plate on Monday morning, still thinking of the previous day’s discoveries, but also thinking of Ron’s unusual behavior in sending her two letters in one day. Mr. Granger folded his newspaper, set it down, and took a sip of his orange juice. Mrs. Granger was scurrying around the kitchen, trying to fasten a hair clip and eat a muffin simultaneously. Hermione watched, smiling, as Mr. Granger stood up and came up behind his wife. He took the hair clip and began to arrange her hair for her while she stood still and ate the last bits of her muffin. When he had done, he turned her around and kissed her.

"Mmmm, blueberry," he murmured.

"You did a good job on her hair, Dad," Hermione said, grabbing a muffin for herself.

Mrs. Granger grinned. "Maybe I should make him do my hair every morning."

Hermione watched her parents and smiled. She thought it was rather unfair that her parents should be in the same category as Harry’s aunt and uncle—Muggles. Shouldn’t there be something in between? Shouldn’t there be Muggles and then . . .  _something else_ for people who aren’t exactly "magical," but . . .? Something for people who raised their daughter in an environment of love, respect, and trust; who allowed her, at the very young age of eleven, to attend a mysterious boarding school to cultivate powers they could never understand; who awkwardly walked through Diagon Alley with her and handed over their money to be changed by Goblins?

She had always loved the way her parents looked at each other, and now, for some unaccountable reason, she wanted to ask her father about Ron. It might have been the way his mouth tipped self-deprecatingly as Mrs. Granger praised his work on her hair. Her parents separated and took their briefcases from the table. Mrs. Granger gave Hermione a peck on the cheek and swept out the door, but Mr. Granger lagged behind to take one more gulp of his juice.

Hermione brushed away her muffin crumbs and cleared her throat. "Erm. Dad?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning to face her.

"I want to ask your opinion on something," she said, feeling her face go scarlet. "If a boy, erm, sends a girl candy and . . . you know, er, writes her letters that are kind of unnecessary . . ." Should she tell him that the candy was Chocolate Frogs? Did it matter? Did boys send certain  _kinds_ of candy to girls they liked?

Mr. Granger cocked his head to one side and studied his daughter. "Well, you’ve done a lot for him, haven’t you? I mean . . . you’ve been a good friend."

"I suppose," Hermione said. "But would a boy just send candy to a girl for no reason . . . do you think?"

"No reason?" her father repeated. "If any boy has reason to send you candy, it’s him."

"You think so? I mean . . . so it probably doesn’t mean that he . . . erm . . . likes me or anything?"

"Possibly, but more than likely he just wants to thank you."

"Oh." This wasn’t quite the answer Hermione had been hoping for.

"Henry?" came Mrs. Granger’s voice. She was peeking back inside the door.

"Be there right away," he called back.

"All right." She disappeared again.

Mr. Granger looked at this daughter, who looked a little downcast at his answer. Perhaps she wanted him to say that the candy _did_ mean something. He coughed. "Right. Hermione."

"Sir?"

Mr. Granger paused and stared at the wallpaper above his daughter’s head. "This Harry fellow. Do you, erm. That is . . . are you really interested in him?"

Hermione gave him a bemused look. "Harry?"

"The chap you found all the pictures for yesterday?"

She smiled, then laughed. "Oh, Dad! I don’t like  _Harry_."

"Oh." He looked confused and reached for his juice again. "So, er, you don’t really like anyone then, I guess?"

"Well, I don’t like anyone  _exactly_. . . I mean, there’s a boy who sent me Chocolate Fr – candy recently. You met him once."

Mrs. Granger’s voice interrupted them. "Henry, dear? We’re really going to be late," she called from the door.

"No one’s in that much of a hurry to get a root canal," he called back. "I’ll be there in a few minutes, I promise."

Mrs. Granger disappeared again.

"You better go," Hermione told him.

"This is more important," he replied. "To whom are you referring? That Krum chap who sent you all that candy this morning?" He no longer stammered, and his voice had gained a little more confidence.

"No, not Viktor," Hermione replied, glancing quickly at the boxes of candy on the table. "He’s nice and everything, but . . . there’s someone else." Hermione blushed to say his name. "Ron Weasley."

"Red-headed boy?"

"Yes."

"You say he’s been sending you candy?"

"Yes."

"As a dentist, I must say that I’m concerned about what these boys keep sending you," he grinned. "And ‘unnecessary letters’? What do you mean by that?"

"Two letters in one day—one that said basically nothing."

"Ah. And does this Ron fellow know about Viktor?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. He acted very jealous at school."

Mr. Granger smiled broadly. "Do you  _want_ me to suggest that Ron’s interested in you?" he asked slyly.

Hermione picked up another muffin and turned it around in her hands. "I want you to tell me what you really think," she replied.

"Before I tell you that, I want you to write him a letter in reply."

"Saying what?" asked Hermione, mystified.

> _Dear Ron,_
> 
> _I got your letter—and your letter about your letter. You’ll be pleased to know that I found several more things for Harry, including a locket with his mum’s picture inside. This letter will be kind of short because I’m so excited! I’ve just received two boxes of Chocolate Frogs from Viktor! He still wants me to come visit, but I haven’t quite decided yet. Anyway, hope you’re having a good summer. Tell Ginny I said hi._
> 
> _Bye,_
> 
> _Hermione_
> 
> _R, This is a piece of parchment for Pig to carry—so he won’t get "jealous," as you say. H._

* * *

Hermione sent the two owls off and and went to her room to do some homework. Several hours later, she was no longer able to resist her curiosity, and she went up to the attic. She sat down on the floor beside the box of Lily’s things, determined to go through each book and paper.

The first book she pulled out was  _Daddy Long Legs_ , by Jean Webster. Hermione flipped through the book, smiling at the funny illustrations inside. Between two of the pages, she found a thin slip of yellow paper. The childish handwriting read simply, "Rose, Mum says I can spend the nite. Lily." One book had a sticker inside that said, "This book belongs to ___." Written on the blank in red ink was "LILY." Another book had the words "Lily Evans" written in one corner. Lily had even drawn a picture of a cat inside one of the books.

As she turned one of the pages of  _Fairy Tales for Children_ , Hermione started at the sound of a little girl’s voice. "Hi. My name is Lily. This is my book. I hope you like it." Just as suddenly, the voice was gone. Hermione took a deep breath and closed the book, then opened it again and turned to the same spot. Just as she flipped over the page, the voice returned: "Hi. My name is Lily. This is my book. I hope you like it."

Hermione tore a small piece of the box and marked the special page of the book. Somehow—Hermione had no idea how such a little girl had managed it—Lily had recorded her voice onto that page of  _Fairy Tales for Children_. Was Lily aware of the fact that she was special, even when she was so young? Harry had so many surprises awaiting him!

* * *

"That’s extraordinary!" Mrs. Granger exclaimed at supper that night. "To think, all this time I never opened that book. I might have died of fright! But I suppose I was used to Lily’s strange little ways."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, passing the potatoes to her father.

"Whenever we would play some make-believe games, Lily always acted like they were real . . . as if she really were speaking to a fairy. She was odd, but she always made me laugh. Mrs. Evans was just as queer, but all the neighborhood children loved her—except her other daughter."

Errol and Pig, who flew in together through the high window that Hermione persuaded her parents to keep open, interrupted their supper. They carried a package between them, and Pig looked especially exhausted. Hermione leapt up to free them from the heavy package, then set it on the table. She put some of her food on a plate and offered it to the grateful owls.

Hermione’s parents, especially Mr. Granger, were looking at the package with interest. Hermione herself couldn’t wait to rip into it, and she did so immediately. At the top were three boxes of Chocolate Frogs. Hermione bit her lower lip as she pulled out each box, glancing sidelong at her dad.

Beneath those was a box of Sugar Quills, followed by another package wrapped in brown paper. This was what had made the package so heavy, and Hermione tore away the paper. Inside were three books. Hermione picked up the first book, entitled  _Broomstick Over Bulgaria: A Travel Guide_ , and forced herself to hold in the "Awww!" that threatened quite strongly to escape her lips. She set it down and picked up the second book, which made her snort with laughter. Ron certainly had a sense of humor; the book was  _The Great Fraud: An Unauthorized Biography of Gilderoy Lockhart_.

Hermione looked down to pick up the third book, but instead sank into her chair. Bound in fine leather, with gold lettering, it was  _Hogwarts: A History – The Collector’s Edition_.

She swallowed hard and lifted the cover. There was a piece of parchment inside, which read:

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I’m glad you found all those things for Harry. He sent me an owl this morning. Dumbledore’s given him permission to leave Privet Drive, so right now we’re working on a way to get him here. You could come too. It would be more fun with all three of us there. But you might have to cancel your trip to Bulgaria. Mum apparently liked your idea of cleaning out the attic when I told her about what you’d found, so she decided that ours needed cleaning as well, and gave me the job of actually doing it. I found these three books up there and thought you might like them. As for the candy, Fred and George bought too much the other day, and Mum made them get rid of it. I thought it would be easier to just send it to you._
> 
> _Ron_

Hermione’s parents had been completely silent since the owls flew in, but Mr. Granger finally spoke. "I’m ready to tell you what I think, Hermione. The boy’s mad about you."

"Boy? What boy?" asked Mrs. Granger, looking from one to the other. "Hermione?"

"It’s Ron," said Hermione, blushing. "Ron sent me all these things. Found the books in his attic, and the candy—"

She was interrupted by the arrival of yet another owl. She’d never seen it before, and as soon as she removed the message it carried, it left. Her mind—and eyes—still swimming from Ron’s package, she managed to open the note and read it aloud.

> _Miss Granger,_
> 
> _Ron would skin me alive if he knew I was telling you this, but I want you to know. Just never let on that you do. I accompanied Ron to Diagon Alley today to buy these things for you. He’s made up some fool story about finding everything in our attic, but he actually sold his chessmen to get the money. Don’t know if you’ve ever seen the chessmen, but they were pretty valuable. I’m telling you this because I want you to realize that my little brother has a very high opinion of you—it’s not my place to say any more than that. Being the excellent big brother that I am, I secretly went back to the shop and bought back Ron’s chessmen. I am leaving them with Ginny, and you may return them to Ron in whatever way you see fit._
> 
> _Take care,_
> 
> _Bill Weasley_

Hermione felt the tears stinging her eyes, but didn’t realize they were streaming down her face until her mother left the table and returned with a box of tissues. "I feel so horrible," she cried.

Her parents looked shocked. "Why?" asked Mr. Granger.

"I’m so horrible! Writing that letter to Ron to make him jealous, and then he goes . . ." She paused to blow her nose. "He goes and sells his chessmen to buy me all these things!"

Mrs. Granger embraced her daughter and said soothingly, "Sweetheart, you must understand that Ron enjoyed buying these things for you. It made him happy. No one _made_ him do it. Can’t you picture him visiting all those shops, thinking about the look on your face when you get his gifts?"

Hermione sniffed. "I feel so guilty."

"Write him a thank-you note," said Mr. Granger, "and start thinking of creative ways to return his chessmen. That’ll cheer you up in no time."

"Yes!" Mrs. Granger agreed. She thought for a moment and said, "Maybe . . . maybe your friends would like to come here at the end of summer? They’ve never been here, and I know it’s not a  _magic_ house, but—"

"Oh, Mum, are you serious?" Hermione exclaimed. She threw her arms around her mother’s neck.

Mr. Granger didn’t seem to need time to warm to the idea. "Certainly," he answered. "And we’ll go pick up Harry. His aunt and uncle can’t object to two ordinary dentists, can they?"

Mrs. Granger laughed. "I wonder if Petunia will recognize me?"

> _Dear Ron,_
> 
> _Thank you so very much for the candy and books. If I ever go to Bulgaria, that travel guide will come in handy. As for the biography, I’m sure that Lockhart would be pleased to know that yet another book has been written about him! I have no words for the Collector’s Edition, so I won’t try to find any. I hope for your sake that your attic wasn’t as dusty as mine! Today I discovered that one of Harry’s mum’s books plays a short message from her when you turn one of the pages! Anyway, I have an idea for you, and I hope you like it. My mum and dad said that my friends could spend the end of summer here, and they would even go to pick up Harry. It would be great if you and Ginny could come, so please let me know soon._
> 
> _Hermione_


	3. Chapter 3

Ron turned pink and quickly stuffed Hermione’s letter into his pocket. She thanked him! Said she had no words for the books! Invited him to her house! He forced himself to remain calm—it was only Hermione, after all—and returned to his breakfast as if nothing had happened.

Fred and George, however, had seen everything and could not be so easily fooled. “Who’s that letter from, Ron?” Fred asked.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were too occupied with the  _Daily Prophet_ to stop the teasing, but Ron noticed the warning look that Ginny shot the twins.

“Nobody,” said Ron, paying close attention to his toast as he buttered it.

Before Fred or George could respond to this, Ginny said suddenly, “Bill, what time do you have to be back?”

At the sound of his name, Bill jerked his head up. He had never been a morning person, and was dangerously close to falling asleep. “What’s that?” he said, massaging the back of his neck.

Ginny opened her mouth to repeat the question, but shut it again when Mr. Weasley banged his coffee mug on the table in disgust. “I knew  _he_ would deny it,” he muttered.

“Now, Arthur . . .” Mrs. Weasley replied. “No one can prove that he was there.”

“Harry said so. Don’t you believe Harry?”

Mrs. Weasley raised the newspaper, and both of them lowered their voices. Ron had grown accustomed to this behavior upon his return from Hogwarts. He had no memory of the days before Voldemort attacked the Potters, but he was beginning to get a good idea.

“We need to add that to our list of things to invent, George,” Fred continued, as if there had been no interruptions. “The Official Weasley Letter From Nobody. Think how many we’d sell! ‘Fool your friends, dazzle your relatives . . .’”

“Aw, leave him alone, Fred,” said George, though he couldn’t suppress a grin. “Poor Ronniekins.”

Ron decided right then to give each of the twins a Blast-Ended Skrewt for Christmas.

“Eleven,” mumbled Bill.

“What’s that?” Mr. Weasley asked, turning to look at Bill.

“I have to be back at eleven.”

“Well, I know that, son. Are you going to eat that bacon?”

Ron cleared his throat. “Dad?”

“Mmmm?” his father replied, stealing Bill’s bacon.

“I need to ask you and Mum if . . . if Ginny and I can go somewhere.”

Mrs. Weasley lowered the newspaper. “Could you be a bit more specific about where ‘somewhere’ is?”

“Where Nobody lives,” Fred murmured, and both twins erupted into laughter.

A  _big_ Blast-Ended Skrewt. An adult. Each. “Erm. One of my friends invited me to stay with her—him for the last week of summer.”

“Herhim?” asked George, sending himself and Fred into another fit of laughter.

“Honestly, you two,” Mrs. Weasley snapped. She turned back to her youngest son. “Ron, do your father and I know . . . him?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Why don’t we talk about this later? Your father and I should discuss it first.” She winked at him, and Ron knew why she had dropped the subject.

He left the table a few minutes later. He wanted to bolt to his room, lock the door, and read Hermione’s letter again . . . maybe read all her letters . . . or maybe just read the best ones more than once.

“I hope we can go to Hermione’s,” came a voice from behind him.

Ron stopped in the hall and turned around to face Ginny. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come off it!” she laughed. “You can be honest with  _me_ , Ron. Of course that letter is from Hermione.”

He shrugged. “Yeah.” The pattern on their carpet was interesting. He had never noticed.

“It would be fun, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” It was very intricate, like millions of circles all twisted together.

“Her parents seemed nice that day we met them.”

“Yeah.” Someone must have spent a lot of time on it.

“What about Harry?” Ginny asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?” Oh. No. Did Hermione like Harry? He didn’t care especially, but he’d appreciate it if his friends told him these things. So he could be prepared. It was simple courtesy. The wallpaper in the hall had four different kinds of flowers on it.

“Well, wasn’t Harry planning to come here? He’ll be awfully disappointed if he has to stay with his aunt and uncle.”

Oh. “Hermione’s inviting him, too,” Ron replied. A yellow flower, a red flower, a white flower, a purple flower.

“That might not be a good idea.”

“Why not?”he asked, finally meeting her eyes.

“Does Dumbledore know about it? I mean, it’s not really safe for Harry to be going wherever he chooses, is it?”

“I don’t think Hermione would do anything against the rules,” said Ron. Except steal stuff out of Snape’s office and brew forbidden potions over a toilet.

“She might not have really thought about it,” Ginny continued to muse.

“Hermione thinks of everything.”

* * *

Hermione had stayed at home just in case Ron and Ginny arrived while her parents were gone. Besides that, she was worried that the Dursleys might recognize her from the train station, and she didn’t want anything to ruin Harry’s chances of getting away. She ran up to the attic to get the box of Lily’s things and carried it downstairs, then discovered that she had nothing left to do but wait.

Fortunately, her friends didn’t keep her waiting long. Some ash stirred in the fireplace, and Ginny stood there seconds later. She came out to hug Hermione warmly, then brushed the soot off of her socks. Seconds later, both girls backed away from the fireplace as something landed with a thud, sending small poofs of ash into the room. Their coughing was quickly replaced with laughter when they realized that the “thud” had been Ron.

He groaned and crawled out, hitting his head with another groan as he did so. “That’s a nice, crooked fireplace you’ve got there, Hermione,” he grumbled, rubbing his head.

“It is  _not_ crooked!” she said defensively. “Maybe you should learn how to use that stuff properly.” Right then, Hermione thought of the chessmen and softened her expression. She stepped closer to him and asked, “Are you all right, though?”

“Yeah.”

Their trunks tumbled down a minute later, and Hermione helped them carry their things to their rooms. Ginny would be sharing Hermione’s bedroom, and Harry and Ron would be sleeping in the guest room. One of the first things Ginny did when they were alone was to give Hermione the wooden box of Ron’s chessmen. Hermione bit her trembling lip and put the box in her desk.

When they had settled in and cleaned up, Hermione led them to the kitchen and gave them each a glass of chocolate milk.

“Well?” said Ron, gulping down everything in his glass.

“Well what?” Hermione asked.

“Are you going to show us that stuff that belonged to Harry’s mum, or what?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, laughing. “I completely forgot!” She ran to retrieve the box and set it down on the table. She showed them the photograph of Lily holding the flower (“That  _does_ look a little like me when I was very little,” Ginny confessed), the locket, the letter from Mrs. Evans, and some of the more interesting books. Both Ron and Ginny were amazed that young Lily had been able to put her voice inside the book of fairy tales.

“Harry won’t know what to look at first,” Ginny sighed. “I’m so happy for his sake.”

“Me too,” Ron agreed. “I like his grandmother. Wonder whatever happened to her? She must have died pretty young if she was already gone when Lily was killed.”

“I’ve thought about that too,” said Hermione. “Not to mention his grandfather.”

“Harry Evans,” murmured Ron.

Hermione gathered Lily’s things together again and put them back into the box. “I better put this stuff away before Harry gets here,” she said. “Should I give him everything tonight, do you think?”

“Yes,” said Ron and Ginny together.

When Hermione returned from the hall, she poured another glass of milk for Ron; Ginny had drunk only half of hers. She sat down with them again, staring absently at the window. She felt peaceful, safe, and content, sitting here in her house with her close friends.

Ron was the first to break the comfortable silence. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Lily never wrote to your mum?”

Hermione looked at Ron. “She was only five or six, though.”

“But she could write,” Ron insisted. “At the very least, her mum could have written.”

He had a point. Hermione frowned and ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that,” she confessed. “It _is_ rather odd, isn’t it?”

“Maybe she did write,” Ginny suggested practically, “and your mum doesn’t have those letters anymore.”

“And if they did write to each other,” Ron continued to muse, “when did they stop, and why? It would have been neat if Lily wrote to your mum from Hogwarts.”

“Very neat,” Hermione agreed, “but it won’t work. When I got my Hogwarts letter, my parents were mystified. They’d never heard of it.”

The three lapsed once more into silence, but Hermione’s brain was now racked with questions. Ron’s question was a good one. Why hadn’t either Lily or Virginia written? And if they  _had_ written, there was still the problem of when and why the letters stopped. It must have been before Lily went to Hogwarts.

* * *

Petunia Dursley whisked her feather duster over the shelf above the kitchen sink, humming to herself. She kept her eye on a neighbor across the street; Annie Yates was burying something in her front yard. Petunia stopped dusting and leaned closer to the window. Right. A sprinkler. One could never be too careful, though.

“Mummy, I want another bowl of ice cream.”

She walked over to the table where little Dudley was sitting and reached for the bowl.

“Mummy! You’re standing in front of my favorite show!”

“Sorry, Angel.” She opened the freezer. “What do you want this time? Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, cookie, or banana split?”

“All of them.”

She returned the bowl to Dudley a few minutes later, along with a short celery stick. “Eat that too, Duddy. You must try to stick to your diet. Remember what—”

There was a knock on the door. She quickly looked out of the kitchen window again. Annie wasn’t in her yard anymore. Most peculiar. She went to the door and opened it cautiously, revealing two strangers—a man and woman who seemed normal enough. The woman was looking at her a little strangely, though.

Petunia pulled back the chain lock and opened the door a little wider. “Er, may I help you?”

“Mrs. Dursley?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

He extended his hand to her. “I’m Henry Granger. Pleasure to meet you.”

She took the offered hand weakly and quickly let it go again. “Er.”

“And this is my wife, Mrs. Granger.”

His wife nodded pleasantly and said, “Call me Rose.”

“Er.” Something wasn’t  _quite_ right. She peered beyond them. They had a nice car. “Is there something you want?”

The man smiled and put his hands in his pockets. “Actually, we were hoping to get Harry.”

Petunia’s eyes widened and her lips thinned. “Who?”

“Harry Potter does live here, doesn’t he?”

“Oh,  _Har_ ry,” Petunia said. These normal-looking people wanted to see Harry? Why? Should she let them in her house? She took another look at their car, which looked quite expensive. She stood aside and managed to say, “Come in.”

She led the couple to the living room. “Lovely home you have here, Mrs. Dursley,” the woman said.

Petunia stared at her. She looked very familiar. “Do you mind if I phone my husband?”

“Not at all. We’re in no hurry,” said the man who called himself Mr. Granger.

Petunia went quickly to the hall and dialed Grunnings, tapping her fingers impatiently on the wall as she waited to be connected to Vernon.

“ThanforcallGrunningVernonspeaking.”

“Hullo, dear. It’s me. Erm, there are two people here who want to take Harry, and—”

“Let them.”

There was a click. “Vernon?” Petunia shrugged and hung up the phone. She went back to the living room and stood awkwardly in the doorway, staring at the couple. “I suppose it’s all right if you take Harry,” she told them as casually as she could.

“That’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Granger. “Is he upstairs, Petunia?”

Petunia started and narrowed her watchful eyes. “How did you know my name?” she demanded.

Mrs. Granger hesitated, then gave the most obvious answer. “Harry told us.”

Petunia wasn’t sure if she believed the woman, however normal she looked and whatever her car had cost. Then she suddenly realized where she had seen the face. It had aged a few decades, but she was sure that she was looking at Lily’s old mate. “I know who you are,” she hissed. “’Call me Rose’? I should have known then.”

Mrs. Granger smiled uncomfortably. “Yes. I was Lily’s friend.”

Petunia couldn’t explain why she did it, but she left them without a word, stalked to her bedroom closet, and took something down from the highest shelf. Then she marched back into the living room and slammed the bundle into Mrs. Granger’s hands. “These are yours,” she snapped.

Mrs. Granger stared down at a pile of letters held together with a blue rubber band. She gasped. “Wh—? I don’t understand.”

Petunia crossed her arms. “It was my job to take care of the mail.”

“You . . . you . . .” Mrs. Granger sputtered. “Are these from Lily to me?”

“Yes. My mother wrote you some as well.” Petunia smiled. “They always wondered why you didn’t write back.”

Mr. Granger put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I think we better leave,” he said. “Could you have Harry come down, please?”

“Yes, take him,” Petunia shrugged. “HARRY!”

There were a few thumps upstairs, followed by a voice. “What is it?”

“Pack your things. You’re leaving now.”

“Okay.” The door shut again. Petunia took a calming breath to suppress her rage. Apparently, Harry was expecting these people. But he didn’t see fit to notify his aunt and uncle, did he?

Mrs. Granger said softly, “You should have given these to Harry long ago.”

“As if food and a roof weren’t enough?” Petunia said dryly. “Just be glad I never burned them. I should have. There’s no telling what sort of nonsense she and my mother wrote.”

“How long did it take for them to stop writing me?” Mrs. Granger asked.

Petunia drew herself up. “Oh, they were quite determined—but so was I. The letters finally stopped after a year or two.”

Before the Grangers could reply, Harry came trudging down the stairs. He was dragging his trunk behind him and carrying that ridiculous owl. So he had been  _ready_ to leave. Had been planning this for  _weeks_ , no doubt. Petunia wanted nothing more than to get him out of her sight. Those horrid green eyes always mocked her. She noticed that Mrs. Granger slipped the bundle of letters subtly into her bag.

Petunia knew then why she had returned the letters. She wanted Lily’s friend to know that she had picked the wrong sister. She, Petunia, was the clever one. The normal one. It was a small triumph, but it brightened her day.

**

The trip from Privet Drive to Hermione’s house passed quickly for Harry, who was so eager to see his friends again. He had looked forward to seeing them at the end of every summer, but none so much as this one, when the previous year’s events weighed so heavily on his mind and conscience. He always tried to picture Cedric as he was before they entered the maze—looking happy at the Yule Ball or racing around the Quidditch stadium on his broomstick. Not only did he picture Cedric as he was before the maze; he tried to picture his  _life_ as it was before the maze. It seemed very long ago, and Harry wondered if he could ever be as content as he was then, when his chief concern was asking Cho Chang to the Ball, or laughing with Ron as they made up silly predictions for Professor Trelawney.

“Did you get all your summer homework done, Harry?” asked Mr. Granger, looking at Harry through the mirror.

“Most of it. I’m sure Hermione’s all done,” he smiled, forcing himself to shake off his gravity. “I should thank you both for my birthday present,” he continued. “Hermione said that you helped her pick it out.”

“It was her idea,” Mrs. Granger said with a wave of her hand. “But you’re quite welcome, Harry.”

They lapsed into silence again, but only for a few minutes. Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as they pulled into the drive of the Grangers’ home. In minutes, he would be with the two people he cared about most. And Ginny would be there too.

As he stepped out of the Grangers’ car, he noticed three grinning faces peering at him through a window. The faces disappeared, and the next second, Ron flung the door open and ran out to meet Harry, with Hermione and Ginny close behind him.

“Harry!” Ron exclaimed. For a moment, Harry thought that Ron was going to hug him, but Ron stopped short suddenly and extended his hand instead. “Glad to see you again!”

Hermione was not so bashful. She flung her arms around Harry’s neck, and Harry noticed that Ron’s ears had gone pink. “We’re all together again,” she sighed as she stepped back. She draped her arm around Ron’s shoulders and grinned. “Aren’t we a sight for sore eyes, Harry?”

Harry’s eyes were much more interested in the expression on Ron’s face at that moment. He looked as though he were claiming the Cup for the Cannons.

Ginny approached Harry more quietly, blushing furiously. “Hi, Harry,” she murmured, smiling up at him.

“Hi, Ginny,” he replied.

“Come, let’s get inside,” said Mrs. Granger cheerfully.

They piled into the house, and Mr. Granger exclaimed, “Hermione, what have you been cooking? It smells heavenly!”

“Actually, Dad,” Hermione replied, “Ron cooked most of it. I just helped with the—just a few things.” Harry watched her smile at Ron, who now looked badly sunburnt from the neck up.

“Well done, Ron,” said Mr. Granger, putting a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “I’m starving.”

Ron carried Harry’s trunk up to the guest room while Harry released Hedwig through a window. He noticed that Mrs. Granger had pulled Hermione aside in the hall and was talking to her quite seriously. Hermione seemed very affected by what her mother said, and covered her mouth with her hand. Harry turned away, not wanting to intrude.

A short time later, all six of them crowded noisily around the Grangers’ small table. Harry had stayed at the Burrow often enough to know that Ron could cook, so he tore into his supper with no trepidation.

“Thanks for taking care of supper, Ron,” said Mrs. Granger. “It was very sweet of you.”

Harry knew that the “few things” Hermione helped with probably had to do with showing Ron how to work a stove. He smiled.

“Why, Harry,” said Mrs. Granger suddenly, “you have green eyes!”

Bemused, he could only respond, “Yes, I do.”

They had dessert in the living room. Mrs. Granger scooped ice cream in the kitchen, and Mr. Granger carried the bowls out to the young people. When he had served the four of them, he disappeared into the kitchen with Mrs. Granger. They were obviously leaving the four friends alone to talk.

There wasn’t much to say. Ron had spent the summer playing Quidditch with his brothers (“And your sister!” Ginny interjected); Hermione had completed all her homework and had done a bit of extra reading on the side; Harry had been driven mad by the Dursleys. Sitting there with them, chatting idly about their boring summers, Harry could forget Cedric and Voldemort. He felt grateful and light.

“I have something for you, Harry,” said Hermione, surprising him.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I have to do a bit of explaining first. See, my mum and I were cleaning out the attic recently, and we found photographs of one of her childhood friends, as well as some books that had belonged to her.”

Harry nodded, wondering where this was going. He felt he should make some response, so he said, “That’s neat.”

Hermione glanced sideways at Ron, then took a deep breath. “Harry, it was your mother.”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

“My mother’s best friend was your mother, Lily Evans. They were only five or six when they knew each other, but my mum has two photographs, several books, and a pile of letters that have never been read. Your mother’s voice is recorded in one of the books.”

She paused to allow Harry to respond, but he only stared at her as if the wind had been knocked out of him. This was simply too much to take in . . . his mother, Hermione’s mother . . . childhood friends. His mind raced to try to process what she had said.

Hermione continued, “My mother never responded to the letters because—they were sent to the wrong address, and she was only recently able to get them back. Besides the letters from your mother, there are also a few from your grandmother.”

Hermione stood up and went to a nearby closet, from which she took a box. She returned to Harry and set the box on his lap. “All of this is yours now, Harry,” she said softly.

Harry swallowed and looked down at the box. His mind felt numb. “Do you—” His voice came out hoarsely, and he cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I go upstairs?”

“Want me to stay down here, Harry?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. He glanced at Hermione and Ginny, whose eyes were shining. “Go on, Harry,” Hermione murmured. “First door on the left. We won’t disturb you.”

He gripped the box with hands that felt alien to him and walked away from them with feet that didn’t feel like his own. He climbed each step one by one and pushed open the door of the dark guest room. After he switched on the light, he sank to the floor with the box and pulled it open.

On top was a bundle of papers held together with a blue band. He put these to the side to be read later. Beneath that was a photograph of a pretty red-haired girl holding a flower. He ran his fingers over her face and set the photograph aside. There was a small gold locket under the photo, and Harry picked it up and opened it.

“Mum,” he whispered as his own green eyes looked back at him.

He unfolded the piece of yellowed paper under the locket and found himself reading a letter written by his grandmother. Her name was Virginia. Virginia Evans. And he realized that he was named for his grandfather. He had seen his grandparents in the Mirror of Erised. It had been years ago, but he still remembered every detail of every face. Two stood behind James, two behind Lily. Virginia Evans was a slender woman with blond hair and a mischievous smile. And she had written this letter.

Several books lay in the box. As he looked through them, Harry found his mother’s name, a short note, and a childish drawing of a cat. His mother’s handwriting.

The last was a book of fairy tales, in which either Hermione or her mother had marked a page. He opened to the selected page, and a little girl’s voice spoke to him.

“Hi. My name is Lily. This is my book. I hope you like it.”

She wasn’t screaming, “Please, not Harry!” in his memory. The shadow of her voice wasn’t comforting him as his whole body was racked with physical and mental pain. She was only Lily Evans, a little girl who discovered that she could preserve her voice in a book. And the little girl’s voice replaced the scream and the shadow.

* * *

“He’s asleep,” said Ron to Hermione and Ginny, who stood behind him in the hallway. “Asleep on the floor.”

“Do you want me to wake him?” Hermione asked, looking concerned.

“I’ll do it,” said Ron. “Good night, you two.”

They disappeared into Hermione’s room, and Ron went back into the guest room. Quietly and carefully, he stacked Lily’s things back into the box. Then, he took the blanket off of Harry’s bed and covered his friend. Grabbing the blanket from his own bed, he switched off the light and crept downstairs to sleep on the sofa.


	4. Chapter 4

_  
Another person’s sleep is the acid test of our own sentiments.  
–Dorothy L. Sayers, _Gaudy Night

Neither Hermione nor Ginny felt like sleeping, so they talked late into the night. Hours after they’d said goodnight to Ron, Hermione wrapped her arms around her knees and yawned. "Maybe we should check on Ron and Harry," she suggested.

Ginny agreed to this readily, and they walked quietly across the hall to the guest room. Hermione turned the knob and pushed open the door. The light from the hall was enough to reveal that Harry was sleeping silently on the floor, curled up on one side and covered with a blanket. Ron was nowhere to be seen.

"Where’s my brother?" Ginny whispered, though she was staring at Harry. He still wore his glasses.

"He must have gone downstairs," Hermione replied. She stepped backwards and shut the door gently. "I’ll go down and see about him. Be back in a minute."

Ginny turned to go back to Hermione’s room, but stopped as Hermione’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs. She went back to the guest room and opened the door. Harry had not moved. Ginny stepped gingerly through the door and knelt down beside him.Slowly, carefully, she reached over to remove his glasses. Her finger grazed his forehead, and he shifted a little. Ginny froze, wondering how she could ever explain her situation if he woke up. He didn’t, however. She eased his glasses away from his face and set them on his trunk, which rested right under the light switch. Unable to resist the urge, she separated the hair on his forehead to reveal the famous, horrible scar. He moved again, and Ginny knew that she had to go. She rose silently to her feet and crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Hermione, meanwhile, found Ron sound asleep on her living room sofa. So she had checked on him—and she could go upstairs and get some sleep. But her feet seemed to move toward him, not away from him, until she finally stood directly over him. _Erm . . . why are you standing here?_ her tired mind asked her.

Ron lay on his back with his right arm draped over his stomach and his left arm dangling off the edge of the sofa. His head was turned slightly to his left. His shocking red hair was tousled, just like Harry’s. His shoes were on the floor at the end of the sofa, and his feet, in their white socks, poked out from the end of the blanket.

Hermione stood there for several minutes, and spent the entire time trying to discern why she was standing there. She thought of a scene in a book she’d read once, about a man and woman at university . . . they were on a boat, floating down a river. The man had fallen asleep, and the woman watched him sleep for two hours.

Ron sighed and stirred a little. Hermione jumped back. "Hermione?" he said.

Her heart stopped. Did he know how long she’d been standing there? How long _had_ she been standing there? She couldn’t decide whether or not she should answer him. Perhaps she could back away—he would never know.

But her eyes strayed over the freckles on his nose, and she answered him. "Ron?"

"I thought that was you." He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

"I was just checking to make sure you were okay," she whispered.

"I know," he replied, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Thanks."

"Good night," she said, turning to go back upstairs.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?" she asked, facing the sofa again.

Ron propped himself up on his elbow and twisted around so that he could see her. "Did you, erm . . . did you really like those books I sent you?"

Hermione’s heart raced. "Oh, Ron," she murmured, wringing her hands. "I _loved_ them." She picked up the special edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ from the table by the stairs and went to kneel on the floor beside the sofa to show Ron. "It’s beautiful. I wasn’t sure if you really got to see it when you—found it in the attic."

"And the other books?" he asked, looking at her earnestly.

"I laughed so hard at the Lockhart book! But, you know, it actually turned out to be very informative. Did you know that—"

"What about the other book? I mean, I know it’s too late, really, for you to use it _this_ summer, but—"

"I won’t need to use it ever," Hermione replied without thinking. Then her brain caught up with her mouth and she added, "I mean, it will be a valuable reference book." Why had she said that? Why? Now he would think that she didn’t appreciate it!

From the look on his face, however, she guessed that she had given the right answer. "Ever?" he asked. His eyes were wide and bright.

"Well, maybe Bulgaria will be a possibility someday. Foreign countries provide such a wealth of knowledge about other wizarding cultures . . ." She stopped, realizing that she was rambling.

Ron reached down and took the book from her hands, setting it on the small table behind his head. "It’s late. We’ll be dragging you out of bed at noon if you don’t get some sleep."

"Okay," she murmured. She stood up, went back upstairs in a kind of daze, and fell asleep surprisingly quickly.

 

* * *

Harry shifted his position and opened his eyes. His whole body ached, and he wondered how long he’d been asleep on the floor. A glance in the direction of the window revealed that it was still night. Someone had draped a blanket over him. He rubbed his eyes and felt the light pattern pressed onto his face by the carpet. Where were his glasses? Groaning, he sat up and rubbed the elbow on which he’d been lying. Every muscle in his body seemed to complain as he stood up and stretched his arms over his head. He moved carefully to the wall and switched on the light. His glasses were resting on top of his trunk by the door. Whoever covered him had also replaced Lily’s things in the box. Ron’s bed was empty. With a great yawn, he sat down on his bed and pulled off his shoes. He went to the door and slowly opened it; it moved without a sound. He tiptoed to the stairs and descended them quietly.

Ron was snoring lightly on the sofa, his socks sticking out from the end of the blanket. Harry grinned. "Ron?" he whispered, touching his friend’s shoulder.

"Arwasha," Ron mumbled.

Harry shook Ron’s shoulder gently. "Ron! Come upstairs."

"Um."

"Come on, you’ll be a lot more comfortable."

"I already studied that chapter."

Harry grinned again. "That’s great. Now come on."

"It’s a boggart."

"Right."

Harry sighed and collapsed onto a nearby chair, and this finally made Ron sit straight up. "What was that?" he muttered.

"You said it was a boggart," Harry replied, smiling as Ron turned around quickly.

"Harry, you scared me to death," Ron grumbled. "What time is it?"

"I don’t know. Why don’t you come upstairs and sleep in your bed?"

"Too much trouble," said Ron, lying down again.

"Thanks for . . . you know, covering me up and everything."

"Welcome."

"Why did you come down here instead of getting in your bed?"

"Didn’t want to bother you."

"Oh."

Harry said nothing else and assumed that Ron had drifted off to sleep again. Just as he was about to go back upstairs, however, Ron asked, "So, erm . . . what did you think of all that stuff?"

"It was a lot to take in. And I still haven’t read that pile of letters." Harry suddenly felt very tired again.

"Hermione showed us some of the things while we were waiting for you and her parents to get here. I couldn’t believe it."

"I still can’t," Harry confessed.

Ron turned on the sofa so that he could see Harry. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

There was another long silence, then Ron sat up again and swung his feet around to touch the floor. "I guess I’ll go up to bed now," he said.

"Good idea," Harry murmured. His eyes strayed to the small table by the sofa. "Hey—is that your book?"

"What book?" Ron asked, yawning.

"That special edition of _Hogwarts: A History_."

"It’s Hermione’s, actually," replied Ron. Harry could see his face flushing, even in the semi-darkness. "I, erm . . . sent it to her."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. Founditintheatticandstuff. Well, I’m going upstairs. You coming?"

"Er—yes." Harry was very curious about the fact that Ron had sent Hermione a book, but he was not foolish enough—or awake enough—to press the matter. Ron wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, picked up his shoes, and led the way up the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ron!"

Someone was shaking him. 

Ron pulled his blanket over his head and mumbled something that sounded remotely like, "Leave me alone."

"Come on, Ron." It was Harry’s voice. "Mrs. Granger made us a huge breakfast. You don’t want to hurt her feelings, do you?"

"Urf."

Ron groaned as Harry suddenly yanked off the blanket. Daylight flooded the room, turning the insides of his eyelids bright orange. He forced his eyes open, and Harry slowly came into focus. 

"All right, all right," Ron mumbled. He sat up and yawned. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Eight."

"Eight?!" Ron flopped back down, and the air rushed out of his pillow with a woosh.

"Oh, no, you don’t," Harry laughed. He grabbed Ron’s arm and started to pull him off of the bed. "Get . . . up . . . you lazy . . . git."

Ron joined Harry’s laughter and tried to pull himself away. He twisted himself around and tried to push Harry away with one of his feet. Harry grabbed the pillow and started hitting Ron with it.   

"What’s going on in here?" came an amused voice from the doorway.  Harry and Ron stopped struggling and looked towards the door. It was Hermione. She carried a tray in her arms and walked over to the bed, laughing.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked.

"I could ask you the same question," she replied, staring pointedly at the way he was still sprawled haphazardly on the bed. "This is your breakfast."

Ron sat up immediately.

"Hey!" Harry protested, tossing the pillow back onto the bed, " _I_  didn’t get breakfast in bed."

"You weren’t  _in_  bed," Hermione retorted. She held out the tray to Ron, who was staring at her. Her hair was damp from her morning shower—and it still carried the scent of her shampoo. Then he suddenly remembered the night before . . . how he’d heard someone coming down the stairs. How the someone had stood over him for several minutes. And he’d known that it was Hermione. And she had said something wonderful. What had it been?

"Ron?" Hermione said, holding the tray closer to him.

"Yeah . . . sorry," he said. He took the tray and balanced it on his lap. "Thanks."

Hermione sighed and sat down on the end of Ron’s bed. His fork paused in midair. She was sitting. On. His. Bed. Well, technically, it was  _her_  bed, since it was in her house . . . but that would mean that he was sleeping in her bed. Both prospects were strange and kind of interesting. Then . . . what? She was leaning over, still laughing at him. Her fingers were in his hair, trying to make it lie flat. He dropped his fork with a clatter.

"Hey," he mumbled, reaching up to grab her wrist. "You’re not my mum."

"Sorry," she said. She pulled away from him quickly, and she wasn’t smiling anymore.

Ron thought up many names for himself at that moment, none of which should be recorded here. Why had he done that? Not only had he hurt her feelings, but . . . well . . . it had been kind of nice . . . her fixing his hair. He picked up his fork again with shaking fingers.

"You’re lucky you didn’t break your glasses last night," she was saying to Harry. Ron swallowed his eggs and picked up a piece of bacon.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"You know, when you were asleep on the floor."

"Oh! No, they were okay. Ron took them off for me."

"Nodiden," said Ron through his food. He looked up at Harry, who seemed confused.

"But when I woke up, they were on top of my trunk," Harry explained.

Hermione shook her head. "I don’t know how they got there. When I looked in last night, you had them on . . . and Ron was already sound asleep on the sofa." She paused. "You say they were gone when you woke up?"

"I’m positive."

Ron turned to Hermione. He knew her well enough to see that the expression passing over her face was one of sudden understanding, but she said only, "Oh. I must have been mistaken." 

It was Bulgaria! He suddenly remembered what she had said that had made him so happy. Something about not needing the Bulgaria travel guide— _ever_. She wouldn’t go to Viktor Krum  _ever_!          

"I hope you enjoyed looking through those things," said Hermione, glancing at the box beside Harry’s trunk. "I was so excited when we found them."

"It’s unbelievable that this stuff was just sitting up in your attic," said Harry in awe. "And all those letters! I can’t wait to read them."

"Do you mind if we look at them with you?"

The three of them turned to see Ginny standing in the doorway.

"Sure, Ginny," Harry replied. "I didn’t think that you three would be interested. But if you want to . . . sure."

Ron suddenly felt stupid. How long had they been awake? It was only eight, after all! He set the tray down between himself and Hermione. "Well," he said, "I guess I should get dressed and everything." He realized that he still wore his clothes from yesterday.

Ginny disappeared again, and just as Hermione was standing to go as well, Harry said, "Hurry up. I’m in the mood to get beaten at chess."

Ron watched as Hermione leaned over to pick up the breakfast tray, her damp hair falling to hide her face. "I don’t have my chess pieces with me," Ron said, finally getting out of bed. His elbow bumped Hermione’s. He thought of her in the living room last night, clasping her hands, telling him how much she loved her books. And that she wouldn’t use the travel guide . . .  _ever_.   

"Oh, come off it," Harry laughed.

Hermione paused at the door and turned around. Ron glanced at her and didn’t regret the fact that his chessmen were sitting on a shelf in Diagon Alley. He looked at Harry again. "No, really," he said, forcing a casual grin. "I don’t have them."

"What happened to them?" came Hermione’s voice from the door.

Ron thought quickly and laughed, "Fred and George made them explode. Long story." That was pretty good! He was rather pleased with himself.

Harry grinned. "You’ll have to tell me about that sometime."

He heard Hermione’s voice again. "I hope they felt sorry for it," she said softly. "Weren’t your chessmen kind of valuable? I mean, I know they were valuable to  _you_."

"Sort of," Ron shrugged. "Anyway, I . . ." He looked at Hermione. "I don’t miss them very much."

Hermione slipped out, and Harry followed her, closing the door behind him. Ron stood motionless in the center of the room. At that moment, he felt that if he looked into the Mirror of Erised, he would not see himself with the Quidditch Cup.

He took a quick shower, got dressed, and raced downstairs to find Harry, Hermione, and Ginny sitting on the floor. Inside their circle were the letters and several boxes of candy. They all turned to look up at him.

"It sounded like Peeves was kicking a desk down the stairs!" Harry exclaimed. 

"I try to make a graceful entrance," said Ron, kneeling down beside them. "I was beginning to think that you started without me."

"Erm. We did," Harry confessed. "But we only read a few," he added quickly. He handed Ron the letters they’d already seen. "You’re not mad, are you?"

"No." Mad wasn’t the word exactly. 

"Do you want a Frog?" Harry asked, offering one. Ron looked at the boxes of candy. They were the ones he’d bought for Hermione in Diagon Alley. Ginny was sucking on one of the Sugar Quills. Why should it upset him that all the others were eating Hermione’s candy? Of course, she would share them with her friends. But . . . his chess set had bought that candy—for  _her_! Then again, she didn’t know that.

"Ron?" Harry repeated. "Do you want a Frog?"

"No, that’s okay," he replied. He looked at Hermione, but she was staring down at the letters. 

"More for us!" said Harry cheerfully. "Where’d you get all of this candy, anyway, Hermione? I know your parents didn’t buy it."

Hermione lifted her head to answer Harry, but her eyes wandered to Ron instead. She looked at him as if she were trying to read something in his face, then turned back to Harry. She blushed deeply and said, "Erm . . . Viktor sent it to me."

Ron felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.  _What?_  No. No.  _What?_   His mouth felt dry, and he felt like he would start belching slugs any minute. Of course, Hermione was the reason he had belched slugs to begin with. Hermione, who had just told Harry and Ginny that her candy was from Viktor Bloody Krum.

"I’m going upstairs," Ron mumbled quickly. He jumped up and took the stairs three at a time, trying not to slam the door of the guest room in his frustration. This wasn’t his house, after all. He sat down on the bed and looked out of the window. He still couldn’t believe it. He had sold his chessmen for her . . . had not doubted the decision until now. What was that she said about not going to Bulgaria ever? She obviously hadn’t meant that. She was only trying to spare his feelings. Well, she certainly hadn’t spared them now. 

How could she say that his presents to her were from Viktor? He had never seen this side of Hermione. It was almost spiteful. She wanted Harry and Ginny to like Viktor. That must be the reason. He jumped at the sound of a knock on the door.                    

"Who is it?" he asked.

A very small voice answered, "It’s me."

He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Hermione right now. Blast it, of course he wanted to talk to her. "Come in," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

The door swung open and Hermione walked in. She shut it behind her. It was strange being in a bedroom with her—alone. "Ron, don’t be mad," she said softly.

"Why would I be mad?" he asked dryly. "If you want Harry and Ginny to know that your boyfriend’s a nice guy, why should I care?"

"He’s  _not_  my boyfriend," she said firmly.

"Then why did you say that?" Ron asked her, much more loudly than he intended. He stood up to face her.

Hermione backed away a little, her lip trembling. "Because I thought . . ." she stumbled. "I thought you would be embarrassed."

Ron blinked. This had nothing to do with Viktor? She had been thinking of  _him_? His heart felt lighter, but he couldn’t let her off yet. "What? Why would I be embarrassed?"

"I was afraid they would tease you if they knew . . . if they knew that . . ."

Ron shoved his hands in his pockets.  "If they knew what?"

"That you had sent them to me. That’s all."

"Ginny knew," he pointed out. But Ginny didn’t know the whole story. Ginny didn’t know about the chessmen.

"Harry didn’t."

"Yeah." He didn’t know what else to say, and neither, apparently, did she. She clasped her fingers together and stared at the window. Ron cleared his throat. "Fred and George gave it to me, you know," he said. "Like I said in the letter. So, erm, there was really nothing for me to be embarrassed about."

She looked at him with an unreadable expression in her eyes. "That’s true," she murmured. "I’m sorry, Ron."

"It’s my fault," he insisted. "I shouldn’t have run away from everyone like a prat."

"But you had every reason to! There I was, just telling Harry and Ginny that your present was from someone else. Someone I don’t even care about."

Again, Ron felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. But this time, the sensation was a little more on the pleasant side. Was she implying that she  _did_  care about  _him_? Well, of course she cared about him. They had been best friends for four years. What a dumb thought.

Then she did something even more surprising. She walked up to him and hugged him. "I’m sorry, Ron," she said again. 

He wondered how he could be expected to talk when Hermione’s arms were around his neck. He circled his own arms around her and pulled her closer to him. This was nice. There was that great scent of her shampoo again . . . When she pulled away a few seconds later, swiping tears from her cheeks, Ron wanted to say, "Hey! I wasn’t done yet!"

"Come back downstairs?" she asked. He nodded, still incapable of speech. She started to walk out, but turned around. "Harry shouldn’t have started to read the letters without you. I was in the kitchen getting your candy, and when I came back to the living room, he and Ginny were in the middle of the second. I guess he just assumed that we aren’t really that interested."

"That’s okay," he managed to say hoarsely. 

Again she moved to the door, and again she turned around. "Are you mad that I shared the candy?"

"No," he assured her. "It’s—it’s only from Fred and George, after all."

There was that strange expression again. What was it? She provided no hints. "Okay," she replied. When he continued to stand there, staring at her, she asked, "Are you coming down with me or not?"

"What’s that? I mean . . . yeah." He forced his feet to move to the door, but he stopped out in the hall. "You don’t care about Viktor?" he asked suddenly.

Hermione blushed and focused her eyes on his. "No, Ron," she replied. "I don’t."

* * *

"I wish I knew what’s going on with those two," Harry muttered when Hermione disappeared upstairs. "You must already know that Ron sent her a book—a really nice, expensive-looking book." He picked up one of his mother’s letters and turned it around in his hands. "Do you know what’s going on, Ginny?"

She shrugged. "He did send her a lot of stuff."

"A  _lot_  of stuff?" Harry repeated.

"I’ll tell you, but you better not ever tease him about it, Harry."

"I won’t."

"Promise!"

He looked her in the eyes. "Do you really think I would?"

"No," she said softly. "Ron sold his chess set" — Harry gave a loud outburst here, but Ginny held up her hand and continued — "and bought Hermione some books and a lot of candy." She looked around them. " _This_  candy, in fact. I suspect that’s why he ran upstairs like that. You know, when Hermione said it was from Viktor Krum. I got the impression that she didn’t want him to be teased, but boys are so . . ." She looked at Harry again. "Boys are so blind sometimes."

"Wait a minute," said Harry, shaking his head. "Ron sold his chess set to buy books and candy for Hermione?"

"That’s what I just said, isn’t it?" asked Ginny, with a hint of the Weasley sarcasm. "Bill went to Diagon Alley with him. But while Ron was in one of the shops, Bill snuck back over and bought back Ron’s chessmen. He left them with me to give to Hermione, and now she has them."

"Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?" Harry asked. "Does Ron  _like_  her or something?"

Ginny smiled. "He’d be a dolt if he didn’t. Anyway, you musn’t ever mention it. He told Hermione that he found the books in our attic, and that Fred and George gave him the candy. He doesn’t know that Hermione knows the truth."

"I won’t say anything," Harry assured her. "But how is she going to give them back? She’d have to tell him that Bill gave away the secret, wouldn’t she?"

"Hermione isn’t at the top of your class for nothing, Harry. She’ll think of something."

"I just can’t believe it," Harry breathed, pushing up his glasses. "Those were his favorite things in the world."

"Kind of like you giving up your Firebolt for someone, isn’t it?"

"My Firebolt isn’t my favorite thing in the world," Harry replied thoughtfully. "But I’m thinking of my favorite thing, and I’m not sure that I would give it up."

"Wouldn’t you?" she asked.

Before he could reply, they heard voices upstairs. "They’re not fighting," Harry whispered. "I guess it went well."

Hermione and Ron appeared a minute later. They sat down as if nothing had happened, and Harry and Ginny were content to pretend that nothing had. Besides, they were sitting around a pile of letters from Harry’s mother . . . letters that had never been read. 


	6. Chapter 6

“I guess it’ll be easier if I just read these out loud,” Harry suggested. “Right, then. We already read the first few, Ron, but they weren’t very interesting. You weren’t missing much. I’ll just start with the fourth, shall I?”

He met with no objections, and unfolded Lily’s fourth letter.       

> _Dear Rose,_
> 
> _Our new house is nice. I miss you. My sister doesn’t like it. But she never likes anything. I don’t have a friend yet. I talk to Mum mostly. I don’t mean to write a sad letter. Is my letter making you sad? I hope not. I’ll write you again when I have something better to say._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Lily_

“Poor thing,” Hermione sighed. “Can you imagine having to live with Petunia?”

Harry laughed. “I wish I only had to imagine it!”

“I wasn’t talking to  _you_ , silly,” she grinned, playfully punching him in the arm. “Read the next?”

Harry picked up the next letter and unfolded it. All four of them started as a little girl’s voice hung softly in the air—“Can you hear my voice? I hope this works. I love you!” 

Ron’s mouth fell open, and Hermione and Ginny seemed to have stopped breathing. “She did it again,” Harry murmured. “Recorded her voice.” He knew that the words were meant for Hermione’s mother many years ago, but he couldn’t help feeling that his mother was speaking to him as well. “I love you!” she said. The words were for him. He had to hear them again. He refolded and unfolded the letter, but only silence greeted him.

“It only works once,” said Hermione, looking at Harry with sympathetic eyes.

“But the book can play over and over,” he replied, confused. Maybe he’d done it wrong. He folded the letter and unfolded it. Nothing. 

Ginny spoke up. “Just think, Harry . . . if Hermione’s mum had opened the letter, you would never have heard that message.”

Hermione was still musing over the technicalities of the thing—“The book must be an actual recording, while the letter was . . . I don’t know.  Her voice captured in one moment of time?”  Her eyes widened.  “Don’t you see?”

Ron swiped his hand over the top of his head and whistled.  “Erm,  _no_.”

With a haughty  _Wingardium Leviosa_  glance in Ron’s direction, she explained, “In a way, it’s better because the book, why, it’s sort of like playing a song over and over.  But her voice in the letter was . . .  _her actual voice_.”

Harry stared at her, unconvinced.  Ron and Ginny seemed just as baffled.  Hermione sighed and said, “Wait a minute.”  She jumped up, and Harry saw her disappear into the hall.  She came back with a tape recorder, very similar to Dudley’s before he’d eaten it. 

“Look,” she demanded.  She pressed “Record,” waited a moment, and said, “Hello.”  She rewound the tape and played back her voice.  Then she pressed stop, looked at them intently, and said, “Hello.”

Harry understood her and stared down at the letter, where his mother’s voice had been waiting for almost thirty years.

Ron voiced everyone’s opinion: “Wicked.”

“I’ll go crazy unless I figure out how she did it,” said Hermione, wrapping her arms around her knees. 

“You’ll never figure it out,” Ron said.

“ _What_?”  Hermione looked offended, and Harry braced himself for the inevitable battle.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Ron quickly.  “I meant . . . I don’t think it’s something you can figure out, like a spell or anything.  She wouldn’t have known.  I think she just . . .  _did_  it.”

“Well, if it’s something that can be done, no matter how one  _does_  it, it has to be in a book,” said Hermione firmly.

“Hush, you two!” Ginny exclaimed, motioning to the stack of letters.  “Let’s see what the other ones have in them.”

The next letter disappointed them, however.  And the next.  And the next.  The ninth letter didn’t have a message either, but proved interesting in its own right:   

> _Dear Rose,_
> 
> _We live by a nice family.  They have a boy who is 7 like me.  He is fun to play with.  He likes to play the same kind of games.  His name is Sirius._

“Now wait just a minute!” Ron burst out.  “That can’t be . . . the same . . .  _our_  Sirius?”

“Why not?” Hermione asked sensibly.

“Good point,” said Ron.  “Read on, Harry.  Sorry for interrupting.”

> _That’s a funny name.  I teased him about it when we first met.  He didn’t mind.  I like him.  Petunia says he’s weird.  Are you ever going to write me back, Rose?  I miss you so much._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Lily_

“Poor thing,” Hermione said again.

Harry opened the tenth letter slowly.  If any more of these letters held his mother’s voice, he didn’t want to miss a word.  And there was the voice of Lily Evans—“Go on, Sirius.”  And a boy’s voice—“How do you know it’s working?”  That was it, but it was enough to render the four of them silent for a long time.  Harry swallowed and read aloud the letter that accompanied the message.  

> _Dear Rose,_
> 
> _Today Mum and I went shopping.  I needed some new clothes.  Also today I played with Sirius.  I told him about you.  His voice is in this letter.  Did you hear it?  Will you write me a letter to show him?  I miss you._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Lily_

So the letters went for almost two years, though none of the others played Lily’s voice. Harry was rather impressed that a little girl could be so persistent. Mrs. Evans had written a few letters to “Rose” as well—most of them expressing concern for her because she had never answered them. 

The most fascinating thing about the letters, apart from the few seconds of his mum’s voice, was undoubtedly the many references to Sirius Black. He had known Lily long before they went to Hogwarts. Perhaps Sirius had introduced Lily to James!  Harry thought of the possibilities, and wondered why Sirius had never mentioned any of this. Then again, he and Sirius had never actually had a chance to talk about matters that didn’t involve life or death. Another thought raced into Harry’s mind. What had Petunia thought when Sirius Black was in the news two years ago? She probably wouldn’t remember the name. 

Harry slowly opened the last letter and read aloud:

> _Dear Rose,_
> 
> _We are going to move again.  Dad always wants to move, and I never know why.  Today I said goodbye to Sirius.  I’m tired of saying goodbye to people.  I hope he writes to me.  I always wish that you had.  But I know that something must be wrong.  If you ever get this letter, I want you to know that I will always be your friend.  I’m going to stop writing to you once we move.  Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!_
> 
> _Love always,_
> 
> _Lily_

Harry was the first to break their long silence. “Hermione, your mother should keep these letters.”

“But she wants you to have them!” Hermione protested. “I doubt she’ll even think of keeping them.”

“They’ll mean more to her. That is . . . they mean a lot to me. More than I could ever explain. But they were written to your mother, and I want her to keep them. At least some of them. Where is she?”

Hermione smiled. “She’s at work, Harry. Remember? She and Dad left right after breakfast.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Why don’t you and Ron play chess?”

“Without my chessmen?” Ron asked. “How?”

Harry thought it kind of strange that Hermione, knowing what Ron had done for her, would bring up the subject of chess. But Hermione had never been timid, had she? 

“Well,” said Hermione, somewhat cheekily, “there is such a thing as  _regular_  chess. We have a chess set in the closet. Shall I get it for you two?” Before Harry or Ron could say anything, Hermione disappeared and returned with a chess board and a wooden box. “Come on,” she coaxed them. She put the board on the living room table and set up their pieces for them. “Come  _on_ ,” she said again. “They won’t bite . . . they won’t do anything, for that matter.”

Harry looked at Ron and shrugged. They went to the table and Ron said, “You take white. I’ll beat you anyway.”

Hermione and Ginny sat watching on opposite sides of the table. Ginny folded her arms and rested her chin in them, while Hermione leaned forward on her elbows. After several minutes, Ron groaned, “This is so boring! What’s the point of playing chess if you can’t . . .  _interact_  with your men?”

Hermione could not stifle a laugh. “Interact?” she repeated.

“You know what I mean,” said Ron, going red. 

Hermione reached over and took a pawn. “Come on, Ron!” she said in a deep voice from the corner of her mouth.  “Let’s get going! Get that rook into play!”

Ron grabbed the pawn and put it back on the board. “Shut up,” he grumbled.

Harry wondered how Ginny could possibly think that Ron liked Hermione. But the very next second, he decided that there might be something to it after all—Ron advanced his rook.

Harry took his turn, and Hermione said to Ron in the same deep voice, “We’re at a tough moment in the game, Ron. Should we beat Harry quickly or prolong the game for more enjoyment?”

“We can’t end the game quickly,” Ron argued with her, in spite of himself. “Look at the board.”

Hermione grabbed the pawn before Ron could stop her, and she danced it in front of his face. “ _You_  look at the board.”

Ginny laughed. “You should listen to your pawn, Ron. See how Harry’s bishop is on—”

“I can’t play without my men,” Ron sighed, flicking his king over with his finger. 

Harry watched Hermione’s face and caught the fleeting look of guilt. She probably wanted to laugh just as much as he himself did at Ron’s perfectly serious way of referring to his “men,” but she put the pawn back on the board and said soothingly, “Ron, you’re winning. Of course you can play!”

“If he’s winning, then I’m the one who needs help,” said Harry, exasperated. He picked up his queen and held her in front of his nose. “Look here,” he spoke to the piece, “what am I supposed to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do now except to lose with dignity,” said Ginny in a very squeaky falsetto. 

Harry looked from the queen over to Ginny. “Thanks a lot,” he grinned. He turned to smile at Ron, but his friend was still downcast, staring at the board. Hermione appeared to notice it as well.

“I just remembered something . . . that I have to do . . . upstairs,” said Ron. 

Harry watched helplessly as Ron left them yet again and disappeared upstairs. He looked at Ginny and Hermione, who were both staring at him as if they were waiting for him to do something. “I’m going after him,” he said.  He took the stairs slowly, racking his brain for something to say.

He pushed the door open to find Ron sitting on the floor, reading a textbook. Shutting the door behind him, he stood there for a second, still trying to decide what he could say. He couldn’t say that he’d come up for something, since it was fairly obvious that he had come up after Ron. Best to say something safe.

“Are you actually doing homework?” he asked with forced levity, hopping onto his bed.

“Yeah,” Ron replied. “School starts in less than a week, you know.”

“But if you do all your homework now, what are you going to do the night before?”

“Laugh at you while you’re doing yours,” said Ron with a grin.

Someone knocked. “Yeah?” said Harry.

“Can I come in?” asked Hermione’s voice.

Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged. “Sure,” Harry answered. She opened the door and stepped in. Harry saw that she was holding her bookbag, and he had a good idea what was inside. 

She swallowed. “Harry, do you mind if I talk to Ron for a second?”

“Erm, no,” he said. He needed to talk to Ron—find out about this  _liking Hermione_  business. But she definitely had something more important to say. He squeezed her arm on his way out, and shut the door softly behind him.

* * *

Ron watched as Hermione sat down across from him, her bookbag in her lap. This was turning into a strange day, indeed. Twice in a bedroom alone with Hermione. “History of Magic homework?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Ron,” she said slowly, “I . . . I have something for you. But you musn’t ask where or how I got it.”

“As long as you promise me in advance that it’s not from Hagrid,” Ron grinned, “I won’t ask any questions.” He was dying of curiosity now. She was opening her bookbag and pulling out . . . how odd. That looked like the box that contained his chessmen.  It  _was_  the box that contained his chessmen. He threw aside his textbook and reached for the box.

“Wh—” He stopped. Not allowed to ask that. “H—”  Nor that.

“Where and how aren’t important,” she insisted.

Ron looked down at his chessmen, then looked up at Hermione’s face. She was smiling at him, and she was so pretty when she smiled. It wasn’t a gloating smile, or a wry smile, or a teasing smile. It was a real smile, and it was only for him. Her eyes were smiling too. And her cheeks were pink. Was she blushing? For him? He reached up slowly and touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. Her eyes widened at his touch, and she drew a rather shaky breath, but she did not try to stop him. For a moment, he felt a rush of panic. Now what? 

“Thanks,” he whispered, letting his hand fall back onto the chessmen. Then he felt her hand on top of his. She separated his fingers from the pieces and entwined them with her own. The chess set was forgotten.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured. She leaned closer to him. Ron felt unnerved by her gaze—this look in her eyes was unfamiliar, frightening, and wonderful—but he could not look away from it. What should he do? He felt his hand being lifted. Hermione held it up between them and touched her lips softly to his fingers, which were still twisted through hers. She lowered their hands again. 

Then he knew what to do. How could he ever have doubted it? With his free hand, he cupped her face again and drew closer to her. He stopped for a moment. What if she didn’t want him to do . . . whatever it was he was about to do? Her fingers tightened in his in silent consent, and she smiled at him again. Ron swallowed and tucked a few stray hairs back from her face and behind her ear, then slid his hand down her arm. He leaned closer still. 

“Ron.” Her breath was warm and sweet. “It’s okay.” She dropped her gaze for the first time, staring down at their hands. “I . . . I want you to.”

His heart leapt. Hermione wanted him to kiss her! She—the smartest person he’d ever met—the most stubborn—the most infuriating—the most impatient—she, who could have chosen a world-famous Quidditch player—who stole potions from Severus Snape, cheated time to take three classes at once, and rode a Hippogriff—who stood over him last night, watching him sleep—the person who drove him absolutely mad—and the only one he’d ever want to kiss.

He whispered her name, as if to remind himself that she was tangible and true. When he first touched her lips with his, he kept his eyes open. Oh, yes, she was very real. He closed his eyes, put his hand at the nape of her neck, and gently pulled her closer. When she sighed against him and returned his kiss, he believed that nothing in his life—nothing, ever—could be better than this. They separated for a moment, but he was compelled to lean back in quickly and take one more taste of her bottom lip before he pulled back from her. He kept his hand on her neck and looked into her eyes.

What if she hadn’t liked it? It had been so wonderful to him—how could she not have liked it? He might have done something wrong, and he would try to think of it later when his mind was capable of coherent, logical thought. Maybe he had . . . Oh. She was saying something. Ears still working? Check.

“Wow, Ron, that was really . . . really nice.  Do you . . . do you want to . . .” She leaned closer, blushing. “Do you want to kiss me again?”

Did he want to kiss her again? Was that a real question? He took her flushed face in both hands and gave her his answer. Why did she like him? Why was she letting him put his mouth on hers—allowing him, insignificant Ron Weasley, to stop up all the brilliant things she might say? Her lips parted beneath his, and he wished he had some idea what he was supposed to do next. Hermione always knew what to do.  

“Ron,” she said softly, “are you afraid of me?”

“Yes.” Terrified would be a better word, really.

Then she was wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him to her. She was bold. He had to compliment her on that sometime . . . mmmm . . . sometime when he trusted himself enough to string words together. He put his hands on her waist, gradually circling them around her as their kiss deepened. They were no longer sitting on the floor; somehow they were both up on their knees, holding on to each other tightly.

“Why do you like me?” he managed to ask. Very good. Complete sentence.

“Because,” she replied breathlessly. Ron, kissing the corner of her mouth, decided that this was as satisfying an answer as any, but she continued, “Because you are the most likely person to ask that question”—she pressed her lips quickly against his—“and the person with the least reason to ask it.”

He would have to think about that later . . . too many words. Rational thought was definitely overrated—and definitely impossible when Hermione Granger’s lips were so inviting. 

They jumped apart, however, at a loud clatter. Ron grinned sheepishly. He had knocked over his box of chess pieces, and now they rolled all over the floor, trying to fight with each other. Ron and Hermione managed to gather the pieces together quickly, but the strange spell had been broken. They both stood up, a meter apart from each other. They blushed furiously, each trying to avoid the other’s eyes. How could they be so uncomfortable and awkward now, when they had just . . . oh,  _very_  easily. 

Ron cleared his throat. “I guess we better go back downstairs now.”

“Yeah,” said Hermione. She picked up her empty bookbag and would not look at him. But as they walked through the door, she turned around suddenly and pulled him back down to her. She kissed him firmly, grinned, and led the way downstairs.

* * *

Hermione waited until Harry had trudged halfway up the stairs before she whispered to Ginny, “I think I’m going to give your brother his chessmen.”

“How?” Ginny asked. “Did you think of a way?”

Hermione jumped up and turned around at the foot of the stairs. “Not exactly,” she replied. “But this can’t wait any longer.”

She ran up just as Harry closed the door, raced into her room, and shoved Ron’s chess set into her bookbag. Then, composing herself, she stood outside the guest room and knocked.

“Yeah?” came Harry’s voice from inside.

She took a deep breath. “Can I come in?”

There was a brief pause, then Harry called, “Sure.” With another bracing breath, Hermione opened the door and entered the boys’ room. Ron was sitting on the floor, pretending to be engrossed by a textbook. Harry was on his bed.

Her throat suddenly felt dry, and she tried to swallow. “Harry, do you mind if I talk to Ron for a second?”

“Erm, no,” he said. He looked as if he  _did_  mind. Hermione felt a little sorry—he might have really wanted to talk to Ron. But she felt that this couldn’t wait. As Harry walked past her, he squeezed her arm gently, and she gave him a grateful smile. He shut the door again, and Hermione forced herself to be calm as she walked over to sit across from Ron.

She could see the title of his textbook now. “History of Magic homework?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Okay, here goes. “Ron,  I . . . I have something for you. But you musn’t ask where or how I got it.” She had been formulating so many creative ways to return the chessmen, and this was all wrong. But she didn’t care.

She felt relieved when Ron smiled at her. “As long as you promise me in advance that it’s not from Hagrid, I won’t ask any questions.” 

Hermione opened her bag and withdrew the box. Ron stared at it dumbly for a moment, then recognition dawned on his face. He threw his textbook across the floor, and all the pages landed at horrible angles; Hermione had to bite her tongue not to fuss him about it. He reached eagerly for the box, and she handed it over.

Then he started stuttering. “Wh— H—”

“Where and how aren’t important.” She hated having to say something so stupid. Of course it was important. Ron, however, didn’t seem to want to ask any more questions. He was staring down at the chess pieces, and Hermione felt a sudden rush of—something. She was aware that her face had brightened into a huge smile. Just to see the rush of joy on Ron’s face!

Then, just as suddenly, Ron was staring at her. He took her by surprise. He had nice eyes . . . beautiful eyes. She had never noticed. Thankful that he couldn’t read her thoughts, she knew that she must be blushing scarlet. Before she had time to register what he was doing, he was touching her cheek. She tried to remember to breathe. This was it . . . she was going to be kissed. 

But then his hand was gone—back on his chess pieces. He thanked her in a voice that was barely audible. No! It couldn’t end like that! It couldn’t! She wouldn’t let it! Hermione could hardly believe her nerve as she reached down and took his hand, clasping it in hers.

“You’re welcome,” she said aloud, though she was thinking, “Kiss me!” His hand was warm and comfortable—just like him, really. She lifted it up and kissed it. Instantly her mind froze and she lowered his hand again. What had she done? He would think she was ridiculous.  _She_  thought she was ridiculous. But no . . . he seemed to like it. He was moving towards her, touching her face again. Then he stopped. Was he waiting for her to do something? She squeezed his hand and smiled at him. That seemed to work, for now he was playing with her hair . . . then his hand was on her arm, and he was even closer.

This was maddening. He seemed so uncertain—she should say something to him. “Ron, it’s okay.”  _What_  was okay? She couldn’t be more specific. She broke eye contact with him and continued, “I . . . I want you to.” Now she could only hope that he would fill in the rest of the sentence and spare her the humiliation of saying anything further.

“Hermione,” he murmured, moving closer. She shut her eyes and felt tingles shooting through her as he finally kissed her. This was far better than any magic. Or maybe this  _was_  magic, and the rest was just . . . spells. His hand was warm on her neck, and he was pulling her towards him. She sighed, responding to him as much as she knew how. He started to draw away from her, but came back to kiss her bottom lip. Then they separated, though his hand was still on her neck. 

He was staring at her with a look that was new. She tried to connect this Ron with the Ron who so infuriated her. She knew that she should say something; assure him that she thought the kiss—that he—was wonderful.      

“Wow, Ron,” she breathed. “That was really . . . really nice.” More than nice. Then she was shocked to hear herself saying,  “Do you . . . do you want to . . . Do you want to kiss me again?”

What if he didn’t? . . . He  _did_. He took her face in his hands and kissed her again eagerly. The same lips that smirked at her, teased her, or frowned at her—they were good for something else.  _Very_  good. She was vaguely aware of the fact that she had parted her lips, offering him more than what he was taking. But he didn’t deepen the kiss. 

“Ron,” she murmured, brushing her lips lightly over his, “are you afraid of me?”

“Yes,” he replied.

She wanted to laugh at this confession, which she knew she could never mention. More than that, though, she wanted to hold him even closer . . . to at once deny and affirm the idea that he should be afraid of her. She put her arms around his neck and brought him closer. He responded by putting his hands on her waist and kissing her with much more, erm, confidence.

Oh, he was good at this. Harry had Quidditch, she had her books, and Ron could use his mouth in ways she’d never imagined. She had finally found his special skill, and it gave her a selfish little thrill to know that it wasn’t a spectator sport—she was the only person who would ever know it. She had decided that much already. Ron’s kisses were hers from now on. They were kneeling close together now, and Ron’s arms had gradually inched around her until he was holding her tightly around the waist.     

Somewhere in the vast jumble of her thoughts, she heard Ron ask, “Why do you like me?”

Only Ron—sweet, self-deprecating Ron—would ask that question. Ron, who allowed a giant chess piece to beat him over the head, chased after gigantic spiders for  _her_ , and stood up on a broken leg to defend Harry against Sirius Black. Ron, who sold his most valuable possession for her. Ron, whose red hair, freckles, and smiling lips were maddeningly adorable. Her voice was shaky as she answered, “Because . . .” She wasn’t done yet, but he kissed the corner of her mouth and distracted her momentarily. “Because you are the most likely person to ask that question . . .” There was more to say, but he was irresistible. She stole another kiss and continued, “. . . and the person with the least reason to ask it.”

Talking was all very well, and Hermione was fairly certain that she would once again be able to appreciate it—later. Right now, she only wanted to be kissed by this stubborn, hot-tempered, red-headed boy. 

Then it ended. There was a crash, and the two of them flew apart. Ron’s chessmen were scattered all over the floor, and Hermione crawled around, helping to pick them up. When the chessmen were safely back in their box, she stood up to face Ron. She couldn’t do it, however. The space between them seemed like an invisible barrier. She could not meet his eyes.

“I guess we better go back downstairs now,” he said awkwardly.

What else could she do but agree? “Yeah.”  She picked up her empty bookbag, still unable to focus her eyes on anything but the carpet. But she couldn’t leave it at that. She stopped in the doorway and turned around suddenly, almost bumping into him. She reached up to put her hand on the back of his neck, bringing him down to her again. Her kiss was quick, but firm. With a smile, she released him and headed for the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

Ron peeked into the girls’ room and grimaced to see them reading silly magazines. Then again, if they had an article with kissing pointers . . . no, Hermione certainly didn’t need that. She was scary enough already. They giggled, and Ron decided to find Harry. Fast. He went downstairs and, hearing voices in the kitchen, looked in. Harry was just sitting down with Mrs. Granger, his photograph album tucked under his arm.

Ron sighed and ambled into the living room. He collapsed onto the sofa and stared out of the window for a long time.

"Oy, Ron!"

He jumped. Mr. Granger had come up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Erm, hi," he replied.

"Lost all your friends?" Mr. Granger asked cheerfully. "Let’s you and I have a chat."

Oh no. Hermione’s dad knew about the snogging. But how? Did he have spies? Did Hermione tell him? Please, no. Please, please, no. Ron smiled awkwardly as Mr. Granger settled comfortably in the chair across from him.

"It came to my attention recently," Mr. Granger began, "that you’ve been sending my daughter sweets. Is this true?"

"Erm. Yes, sir."

"Are you aware, Ron, of how bad sugar is on the teeth?"

Ron’s brow crinkled. He had no idea how to take this. He studied Mr. Granger’s impassive face, searching for some hint. Ah—there it was. The corner of his mouth was tilting upward.

"Well, sir," said Ron, emboldened, "I think she’s in good hands."

Mr. Granger’s face broke into a true smile. "Ron, it was very nice of you to send her all those things. I wish you could have seen her face when she got that big package."

He had to ask. And he had the feeling that Mr. Granger _wanted_ him to ask. "What did she do?"

"I’ve never seen such a big smile on her face . . . that is, before she started crying."

Ron was satisfied with both reactions. All he could think to say was, "Really?"

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Granger nodded. His smile disappeared, though his expression was still encouraging and pleasant. "My daughter thinks a lot of you, Ron. And she’s the smartest person I know, so I don’t question her taste."

The air of the room suddenly felt very cold on his face and neck, and he knew that he must be the color of a Quaffle. "Well," said Mr. Granger, standing up abruptly. "I have work to do." He offered his hand, and Ron stood up to shake it. Ron exhaled deeply when Mr. Granger left. He stood in the center of the living room for a moment, then raced to the kitchen. He needed Harry, and it was no longer an option.

* * *

Harry walked into the kitchen, where Mrs. Granger was going through her mail at the table. Under his arm he carried the album of photographs which Hagrid had collected for him. She tucked a few contrary strands of hair behind her ear, and Harry could see Hermione in the features of her face. "Erm, Mrs. Granger?"

She noticed him and smiled. "Harry. How are you? Enjoying yourself?"

"Very much. Thanks for having us over."

"You’re quite welcome."

"I . . . erm . . . wanted to show you something. I just thought you might like to see, er, what my mum looked like."

Mrs. Granger laid a letter down slowly. "You have pictures?" she asked, eyes widening. "Of Lily as an adult?"

"Yes, ma’am."

She cleared a spot on the table and motioned for Harry to sit down with her. Harry sank into the chair and laid the album on the table. Mrs. Granger leaned forward anxiously as Harry opened it. She smelled like toothpaste—but in a nice way.

He cleared his throat. "This is a picture of her with my dad," he explained, turning the album so she could see better.

Mrs. Granger looked at him with an expression he had only seen on Mrs. Weasley’s face on the night Cedric . . . "Oh, Harry," she murmured. "She grew up to be very—very beautiful, didn’t she?"

Harry bit his lip and nodded.

"And you look just like your father," she went on. "The resemblance is uncanny."

He turned page after page in the album. They dwelt for some time on the wedding picture. Harry stared at Sirius, marveling yet again at what Azkaban had done to him. "That’s it," he said, turning over the last page.

Mrs. Granger leaned back in her chair, swiping her index finger under her eyes. "I’m so glad you showed me these pictures," she said. "It meant a lot to me."

Harry took a deep breath. "Mrs. Granger, I want you to keep those letters."

She looked horrified. "Oh, Harry! I could never—"

"Some of them, at least," he insisted. "I would feel better if you had something to remember her by. And she did write those letters to _you_."

"I’ll keep one letter, Harry," she assented. "You just pick the one."

"I’ll pick a good one."

She smiled at him. "I’m glad Hermione has such wonderful friends . . . you and Ginny and Ron. Have you ever noticed how much your friend Ginny resembles your mother?"

"They both have red hair, I guess," Harry shrugged. What did Ginny have to do with anything?

"It’s not so much their actual facial features," she mused, "though that was the case in Lily’s childhood photograph. There’s something else."

Ron came dashing into the kitchen. "Harry!" he exclaimed. "There you are! Listen, the girls are upstairs looking at rubbishy magazines. Care for some chess?" _He_ had certainly been in a good mood all afternoon. Ever since Hermione had returned his chessmen. When they had come downstairs together ten minutes after Harry had left them, Ron had looked as if he had just been invited to join the Cannons.

Harry stood up and pushed the photo album towards Mrs. Granger. "I guess I’ll go," he said. "I’ll just leave this with you, shall I? You can look through it again if you want to. I, erm . . . I do that a lot. I never get tired of it."

"Thanks, Harry," she said. She paused as if she wanted to say something else, but her voice said only, "Have fun."

He followed Ron into the living room. "What did Hermione’s mum think of those pictures?" Ron asked him.

"She really liked them," Harry replied. "I think I’m going to give her one of them. I already convinced her to keep one of my mum’s letters." They sat down on the floor and began to set up the chess pieces. "I just have to decide which one to give her."

"Give her the last one. Do you want white?"

"Yes. I’m not afraid to admit that I need the advantage." He grinned. "Anyway, why the last one?"

"Because that’s the one where your mum said goodbye. It’ll be more special to her than any of the others."

Harry frowned suddenly. "I wish she had been able to hear my mum’s voice in those letters. They were for her."

"I think it’s better that you heard them," Ron said. "You heard your mum say ‘I love you.’ Mrs. Granger would have wanted you to hear that instead of herself."

"Yes, but my mum didn’t know she was talking to _me_."

"So? Besides, now you have a nice memory of your mum’s voice . . . instead of her screaming, I mean."

"I sent an owl to Sirius a little while ago. I don’t know when he’ll be able to reply, with everything that’s happening, but . . ." Harry sighed. He didn’t want to venture further into this topic.

"Harry, does Dumbledore know that you’re here?" Ron asked suddenly.

"Yes, I sent word to him when I got Hermione’s letter."

"Good. Ginny was worried about you before we came. Check."

"So, erm . . . what did Hermione say when she gave you your chessmen?"

Ron went scarlet. "Not much."

"She must have said _something_ ," Harry pressed. "You were up there for ten minutes."

"Yes, well . . ." Ron shrugged. "We spent most of the time just, er, looking at the chessmen."

"So how did she get them if Fred and George made them explode?" Harry asked, feigning ignorance.

"Oh, that. That’s not actually what happened. I, erm . . ." He coughed and said "sold them" at the same time.

"What was that?" Harry asked, fighting a smile.

"Sold them. Check."

"Again?" Harry looked at the board and sighed. "Why did you sell them?"

"I bought some stuff at Diagon Alley."

"Oh." Ron seemed surprised that Harry didn’t ask anything further, and Harry tried not to show how much he was enjoying this. He promised Ginny not to tease Ron, and he wouldn’t dream of it to begin with. He only wanted the information—directly from his friend. "Like that special edition of _Hogwarts: A History_?"

Ron flushed again. "Yeah."

"That was nice of you," Harry said. He wasn’t sure if he should ask, but he did anyway. "Do you . . . erm . . . like her?"

"’Course I like her. Don’t you?"

"That’s not what I meant."

"I know."

"Well, do you?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Are you mad?"

"No. I think it’s great."

"Oh, okay. Checkmate."

"I play the loser!" Ginny called from the stairs. She walked over to them and stood over the board.

"That’ll be Harry," said Ron. "But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

"Maybe _some_ people have faith in me," Harry laughed.

Ron and Ginny looked at each other and smirked. Ron reached over and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Hate to tell you this, mate, but no one has faith in you when it comes to chess."

* * *

Ron grinned as he went upstairs. What a day. Hermione bringing him breakfast, Hermione hugging him, reading the letters from Harry’s mum, Hermione kissing him, playing cards, eating supper, talking to Mr. Granger, beating Harry at chess (again), Hermione, Hermione, Hermione . . . Hermione. There she was, sitting on her bed with a book, while Harry and Ginny were downstairs playing chess . . .

He stood in her doorway and tapped on the frame. She looked up at him and blushed. "Hey," he said.

"Hey."

"Can I come in?"

She turned redder, if that was possible. "I guess."

He walked in and stood awkwardly in the center of the room. "You have a nice room," he said stupidly.

She smiled. "Thanks."

This would require tact. He had to be subtle. He couldn’t just say, "Please snog me again." Although this was his ultimate goal, he must let on that he had some other reason for being here. Perfectly logical.

"So," he said.

"What?"

"Erm. What are you reading?"

In reply, she held up the Bulgaria travel guide. Wait a minute . . . ! Be calm. Be calm. Be—

"Why are you reading that?" he asked, a little more abruptly than he intended. Actually, he hadn’t intended to ask at all, but words did have a tendency to come out.

"Why shouldn’t I be reading it?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. She closed the book, laid it on her bed, and crossed her arms. Not good.

"Well, what’s the point? I thought you weren’t ever going there."

"I might. Besides, you’re the one who gave me the book. Now you don’t want me to read it?"

"I don’t care if you read it or not. Have you decided to go to see Vickie after all?"

Her lips thinned, and he couldn’t help thinking of Professor McGonagall. "Would you _like_ me to visit Viktor?" she asked in a low, dangerous voice.

"Not really."

"Why shouldn’t I?"

"Because _I_ want you!" he blurted. Oh no. She would never speak to him again.

But she was smiling. "You do?"

"Well, I mean . . ." he stumbled. " _Sort_ of."

"Sort of?" she repeated, looking up at him with that teasing smile.

Words seemed so pointless and time-consuming, not to mention the fact that they were too hard to put together. He covered the short distance between them, leaned down, and kissed her, quickly and fully. "A lot," he mumbled, putting his arms around her.

She laughed into his shoulder. "Did you come in here just to do that?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Don’t waste so much time in future." She leaned back from him. "That’s enough, now. The door’s open, and the last thing we need is for Harry or Ginny to catch us."

"They’re playing chess, and I’m not done yet," he murmured a centimeter away from her mouth. He closed the small space with a kiss that made Hermione sigh. He loved when she did that! She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, though not with much conviction.

"Ron, we really shouldn’t," she said. She stared at him for a moment, then moved her hands from his shoulders to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him back to her. The movement was sudden, and his laughing at her drastic change of heart didn’t help—he lost his balance. Hermione moved her arms in an attempt to catch him, but it was too late. Trying not to fall on her, he went backwards and landed flat on the floor.

"Ow."

Hermione clutched her stomach and laughed, then slid off the bed to kneel beside him on the floor. "Are you"—she paused for another burst of laughter—"okay?"

"Maybe. Thanks for the sympathy anyway."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "All better."

"Hey! That’s not the kiss I fell down for. I seem to recall it starting off something like this . . ." He took her arms and put them around his neck. "Now. What were you going to do?"

With a grin, she showed him. "Oh," he said at his first opportunity to breathe, "that was worth it."

"I’m glad," she said. "Now _please_ get out of here before either our best friends or my parents catch us."

"All right," he sighed. They stood up together, and he noticed the Bulgaria book on her bed. "You’re not going to, erm, read that anymore, are you?"

"If you must know, I was researching something for homework."

"Oh. Don’t I feel like a prat." He grinned sheepishly.

"Not for the first time," said Hermione, returning his smile. "Now get out of here before I kiss you again."

"You’ll kiss me again if I stay?" he asked hopefully.

"No!" she laughed. "That’s not what I meant, and you know it."

"Okay, okay, I’m going." He started to leave, then turned on her suddenly, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her quickly.

"Mmmm . . . now out!"

He stepped out into the hall and heard her laughing behind him.

* * *

"I just know they’re up there snogging," Harry mused as he lost his bishop.

"Yeah," said Ginny. "Let’s just stay down here until it’s safe."


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione turned a page of the book that she was pretending to read and glanced over at Ron. He, too, was holding a book, and she could tell that he, too, was pretending to be engrossed. A smile slipped across her face. They were in the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the long sofa. Her parents were at work, and Harry and Ginny were outside in the Grangers’ pool. She could hear them splashing and laughing.

"I thought you did your History of Magic assignment yesterday afternoon?" she asked slyly, noting the title of his book.

Apparently relieved to do away with the reading charade, he snapped the book shut and grinned at her. "Yeah, well, I got a little distracted yesterday afternoon."

Hermione blushed, but said, "Really? Professor Binns won’t be pleased."

"Why not? I’ll just tell him that I tried very hard to concentrate on my assignment, but that ‘Miss Grant’ kept wanting me to snog her."

Hermione laughed out loud and threw a sofa pillow at him. "You wouldn’t! Besides, I bet he doesn’t know  _your_  name, either."

"And what were you reading?" he asked.

She laughed again. "I don’t even know!" She closed the book to look at the title. " _An Exhaustive History of Mandrakes in the Seventeenth Century_. Oh. I’ve already read this, anyway."

Ron made a face. "Sounds great." 

They looked at each other and smiled. This was nice—being able to stare at someone openly for no reason—even if he was across the sofa. She could study him freely, flushing with the knowledge that he was doing the same. He had his father’s eyes, as did Ginny. He, like the twins, had Mrs. Weasley’s thick hair. He and Percy shared Mr. Weasley’s long nose. He had Mr. Weasley’s smile. Beyond his physical appearance, though, she could see other traces of his family in him—Percy’s masked insecurity, the twins’ mischief, his mother’s temper, his father’s earnestness, his older brothers’ rumored intelligence, and Ginny’s consideration and sweetness.

But this was what people had been doing to him all his life, wasn’t it? Comparing him to the other members of his family? "Is he going to play Quidditch as well as his brothers?" "Is he going to be Head Boy?" "Is he going to get as many O.W.L.s?" He was "another Weasley." Oh, but he was so much more than that! He didn’t know it, though, did he?

She wanted to ask the question she’d had in her mind for years. She swallowed. "Ron? Why did you become Harry’s friend?"

He started. "Why wouldn’t I?"

"It’s just that . . . all your life, you’ve been overshadowed by all your brothers, and I know how much that bothers you. _I_ know that you’re the best of them all . . ." She paused and smiled at him. "But then . . . when you came to Hogwarts, you became Harry’s friend, even though that would mean . . ." She trailed off, uncertain if she should continue. Perhaps she had said too much already. She didn’t want to get too personal.

Ron, however, seemed to want to talk about it, and he completed her sentence. "Always being looked over whenever he’s around. Always known as ‘Harry Potter’s friend.’ Not much of an improvement on ‘Bill Weasley’s brother,’ is it?"

She shook her head. "Why? I mean . . . why not be best friends with Dean or Seamus or Neville?"

Ron thought for a minute, then spoke slowly, "I liked him well enough when we met on the train. Told me that he had worn hand-me-down clothes all his life. He just wasn’t like I had always pictured Harry Potter. He wanted to know me, and not just the other way around. But he also did something, and after that . . ." He stopped for a second and looked away from her. Hermione read his feelings and fixed her eyes on the ground. "Malfoy came in. Insulted me, as usual. Offered his hand to Harry. He wanted to be Harry’s friend!"

"I didn’t know that," Hermione murmured. 

"Yeah. Malfoy told Harry not to go around with the ‘wrong sort.’ And I thought, right then, ‘Well, it was good while it lasted.’ Now famous Harry Potter will realize that he doesn’t want to be friends with the youngest Weasley. He’ll go around with the important people." Ron stopped again.

"And?" she prompted.

"Harry didn’t take his hand. Famous Harry Potter wanted to be friends with  _me_. Hermione, the most famous boy in the world wanted  _me_  to be his friend. Me, with my horrible old robes and dirt on my nose and—"

"You were so funny-looking with that dirt on your nose."

"Yeah, thanks." He laughed. "It’s a little thing when I talk about it, and Harry probably doesn’t even remember it. But right then, I was his friend for good."

"I don’t think it’s a little thing," said Hermione. "And I also think that Harry’s very lucky."

He turned back to her suddenly, eyes wide. "Harry’s lucky?"

"That you were the one who sat with him on the train." She smiled at him.

Ron mumbled something, but she couldn’t hear a word of it; it didn’t help that he was staring down as he said it. Then he looked up at her for a response.

"I’m sorry, Ron," she said. "I couldn’t hear what you said."

His ears turned pink, and he cleared his throat. "I said . . . I love you."

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat as she focused on Ron with wide eyes. The distance between them on the sofa suddenly seemed like a huge waste of space. "Love me?" she asked weakly.

"Yeah." He now seemed to be stifled by the effort required to tell her such a thing, and sat in embarrassed silence.

Should she say that she loved him, too? _Did_  she love him? She wasn’t even fifteen yet. Did she really have any idea what she was talking about? Then she thought of the huge chess board, the slugs, the giant spiders, the broken leg, and the chessmen. She thought of the hand-me-down robes and the broken wand. One good look at Ron confirmed to her that she knew exactly what she was talking about. 

She tried to keep her voice steady. "I love you, too."

" _Why_?" he blurted, clearly not expecting her response.

She wanted to laugh, though her heart ached that this question should still be so important to him. "I’ve already answered that," she replied.

The front door opened, and two laughing voices moved into the hallway behind them. Hermione and Ron twisted around on the sofa to see Harry and Ginny standing there, dripping wet. Harry had a towel around his shoulders, and his hair was even messier than usual. Ginny’s towel was wrapped around her waist. Her red hair hung in wet, tangled strings.

"Hey!" said Harry.

"Hey," Ron replied. "Have fun?" 

"Sure. Thanks to Harry, I have about four gallons of water in my nose," Ginny giggled.

"You started it," Harry retorted.

Hermione wanted to join their laughter, but found herself incapable of it. Even Ron’s grin looked very forced. 

"We better get upstairs," said Ginny, rubbing her hands briskly over her shivering arms. "I have the shower first!"

"We’ll see about that!" protested Harry.

Hermione watched them disappear noisily together up the stairs, then turned back to Ron. They stared at each other dumbly. Either Harry or Ginny started a shower above them. Hermione moved herself to Ron’s end of the sofa, leaned her head on his shoulder, and took his hand. "My parents will be home in a few minutes," she said.

"Yeah."

She raised her head again and reached over to hand him his History of Magic textbook. "You better get back to this." She smiled at him, but his face was impassive.

"Okay."

"What’s wrong?" she asked, squeezing his hand.

He looked at her with wide, almost fearful eyes. "Did you . . . did you mean what you said to me just now? Or were you just . . . you know, trying to be nice because I, erm, said it first? I know I’m not really good enough for you, and all that."

She leaned back against him and draped an arm across his chest to rest her hand on his other shoulder. "Ron, don’t you ever say that again. I don’t want any other boy at Hogwarts. I don’t want one of your brothers. I don’t want ‘famous Harry Potter.’ I want Ron Weasley." 

"And you’re supposed to be the cleverest girl in our class." She could hear the smile in his voice.

The front door opened again, and they quickly separated. 

"Hi, kids!" came Mr. Granger’s cheerful voice.

"Hey," said Ron and Hermione together, each of them now absorbed in a random page of their books.

**  

Harry’s reply from Sirius had arrived that morning at breakfast. He had been thrilled, naturally, to learn that Harry had found so many keepsakes from his mother, and had seemed certain that he "must have mentioned" being friends with Lily before Hogwarts. He had instructed Harry to wait by the Grangers’ fireplace at seven o’clock. Harry sat down in Mr. Granger’s chair, his hair still damp from the shower he took after his swim. Sirius’ face appeared in the flames promptly at seven.

"Hi, Harry," he smiled.

Harry grinned back. "Hey."

"Had a good summer?"

"Since I came here," Harry replied.

"Dumbledore knows you’re here?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now tell me more about what you’ve found of Lily’s."

"Two pictures, some books, and a bunch of letters. Her voice plays over and over again in one of the books, and she also had it in several of the letters. But they only worked once."

"And she mentions me in the letters?" Sirius asked.

"Yeah. She had your voice in one of them. I wish I could make it play again for you."

"I vaguely recall her asking me to say something for a letter," he said thoughtfully. 

"But Sirius, how did she do it? It’s driving Hermione crazy."

Sirius grinned. "I have no idea. I was just a kid. I suppose the same way you could make the snake come out of the glass at the zoo. Just . . . powerful feelings."

"I thought you had to be angry or something."

"No, no. Any powerful feeling will do it."

"Have you heard from Professor Lupin?" Harry asked.

"Once or twice. He’s very busy with some assignment from Dumbledore—wouldn’t even tell me."

"Well, if you see him again, tell him I said hi."

"I will." He paused. "Are you certain that I never mentioned knowing Lily before Hogwarts?"

"I’m positive," Harry nodded. "So did you introduce her to Dad?"

Sirius smiled broadly. "Yes, I introduced them. I met James on the Hogwarts Express, and then I spotted Lily right before the Sorting. It had been a few years since I’d seen her, but we’d written to each other. Remus and . . . Peter . . . we would meet later. We were all Sorted into Gryffindor, and the rest is history. We were inseparable. She had another good friend, though . . ."

"Who?" Harry asked eagerly.

Sirius’ mouth was a grim line. "Severus."

Harry swallowed. "My mum was friends with  _Snape_?"

"Oh, yes. She used to be so funny at Quidditch matches, wanting to cheer for both Gryffindor and Slytherin."

"This is so weird," Harry muttered.

"Their friendship didn’t last long. The more she became attached to us—especially James—the more hostile Severus became. After the unfortunate event in the Whomping Willow, he stopped speaking to her altogether." Sirius was thoughtful for a moment. "But he always cared about her safety. Left the Death Eaters when Voldemort targeted the Potters."

Harry was dumbfounded. "That’s why he left Voldemort?"

"Yes. I suppose it’s time for you to know all these things. He volunteered to be their Secret-Keeper . . . insisted that no one would think of questioning him. In the end, though . . . well." Sirius cleared his throat. "You know what happened. No sense bringing that up."

"No," Harry agreed.

"I must go," said Sirius abruptly. "I’ll be at Hogwarts at the end of September. See you then?"

"Yeah. I’m looking forward to it."

"Be careful, Harry. Keep in touch. Tell your friends I said hello."

"I will—on all three."

Sirius disappeared, and Harry slouched in the chair. He could almost feel the weight of this new information heavy on his shoulders. After some minutes of quiet reflection, he went upstairs to find the others. They were playing a Muggle card game in Hermione’s room.

Ron looked up at him as he walked in. "How’d it go, Harry?"

"Fine. Sirius says hello."

"So did we guess right—was he the one who introduced your parents?" Hermione asked, laying her fanned cards on her lap.

"Yeah. He also told me that my mum was good friends with Snape!"

Ron looked as though Trevor the toad had jumped down his throat. "What?!" he bellowed. The card game was forgotten.

Harry sat down cross-legged between Ron and Ginny. "Yeah."

"I wish I knew more about Snape," Hermione mused. 

Ron smirked. "I know all I want to know, thanks very much. Let’s start over so Harry can play."

* * *

Ginny stared up at the dark ceiling of Hermione’s room, willing herself to fall asleep. She was so grateful for their time here, where they could relax and forget about what was really going on in the world around them—they would be plunged back into that dark world in less than a week. She also appreciated the fact that Ron and Hermione often wanted to be alone together, since that provided her with time to be with Harry. Just the two of them, for the first time. "Ginny?" Hermione whispered.

"I’m awake," she replied softly.

"Good. I can’t sleep."

"Me neither."

They lay in silence again until Hermione asked, "Did you have fun swimming?"

Ginny grinned and blushed; she knew that Hermione could see neither. "Yes."

"I feel bad because Ron and I keep forcing you two to fend for yourselves. I’ll try not to let that happen too—"

"It’s okay," said Ginny, a little too quickly. She shut her eyes and bit her lip.

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "I see."

What was the use of pretending, when Hermione already knew? "You know how I feel about him," Ginny murmured. "And for the first time, I get to do things with him—just us. It’s not like trying to say something to him in the Great Hall, with Gred and Forge laughing about everything I do. Or in the Tower, where he just wants to talk to you and Ron. He pays attention to me now." She paused and frowned. "But I guess he  _has_  to, as you say."

"I don’t know about that," said Hermione. "He was in an awfully good mood when you came in from swimming."

"Really?"

"Yes. Tell me, why do you like him so much?"

Ginny smiled cheekily, even if Hermione couldn’t see her. "I know he’s not such a catch as my brother . . ."

"Hush!" Hermione said. She was laughing.

"I used to think that maybe I liked him only because he was famous," Ginny continued seriously.

"Oh,  _that_ ’s not true!" Hermione insisted. "You never stopped liking him when everyone thought he had opened the Chamber of Secrets."

"That’s because I knew he didn’t do it," said Ginny.

"It doesn’t matter. He was still unpopular then. And what about last year, when everyone hated him because they thought he had put his name in the Goblet? Even Ron wouldn’t speak to him."

"I suppose," Ginny shrugged. 

"Are you the one who took off his glasses the other night?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. Don’t give up on him, Ginny. Boys are a bit thick."

"I won’t give up, as long as I think there’s some chance that he’ll love me as much as my brother loves you."

"Your brother doesn’t—"

"Oh, yes, he does." 

They were quiet for a long time. Ginny thought of Harry, still trying to understand why she felt so strongly about him. He was thoughtful and kind and brave, of course, but wasn’t there something else? By those qualities, she could just as easily like Cedric Diggory. But thinking of Cedric brought another image to her mind: Harry crumpled on the ground in physical and mental anguish, sobbing, clinging to Cedric’s lifeless body as if he could somehow bring him back. She thought of Harry in the hospital bed, crying in her mother’s arms. Yes, she had been there—standing in the corner where he couldn’t see her. How could she not be there? Harry was hurt and vulnerable, and he needed her. And she needed  _him_ for some reason she hadn’t worked out yet . . .

"Hermione?" she whispered.

There was no reply, so Ginny sighed and focused again on the ceiling.

* * *

"You and Hermione still getting along?" Harry asked sleepily.

"Yeah."

"That’s good. ‘Night."

"’Night."


	9. Chapter 9

Harry woke up early the next morning, showered, and dressed quietly. Ron was still sound asleep when Harry crept downstairs with his mother’s last letter clutched in his hand. He peeked into the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Granger were standing close together over the stove. Mr. Granger, still in his pajamas, was holding a spatula, and Mrs. Granger, already dressed for work, was giggling. Harry could not tear his eyes away. He watched them hungrily, wishing that Mr. Granger had untidy black hair and glasses, and that Mrs. Granger could suddenly turn into her childhood friend. Why couldn’t his parents laugh with each other as they made breakfast together? There was an empty kind of ache—he’d felt it at the Mirror of Erised, and again when Mrs. Weasley had held him a few months ago.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and started, pulling quickly away from the kitchen door. 

“Are you okay?” Hermione stood there in her pajamas. Her eyelids drooped, and her hair looked like twenty-six wizards had each performed  _Accio_  commands from different directions.

“Yeah,” Harry replied casually. He held up the letter. “I was just going to give this to your mum.”

“That’s nice of you,” she said.

Harry shrugged. “Breakfast smells good.”

“That’s why I came down,” Hermione confessed. “I’m starving.”

“Are you going to take breakfast up to Ron again?” he asked innocently.

She blushed. “ _Maybe_. I guess you know about us . . .?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you, erm . . . I mean . . . you don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no!” Harry assured her. “I think it’s great.”

Hermione seemed relieved. “Good. I was kind of worried.” Louder laughter came from within the kitchen, and Harry and Hermione peered in. “They must be making faces with the food again,” Hermione groaned. 

Harry followed her to the table, where the Grangers had indeed arranged their food into faces. He laughed, but Hermione rolled her eyes. They sat down opposite the Grangers.

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Granger. “Have a good night’s sleep?”

“Yes, thanks,” Harry replied.

“Hermione, dear, you really want to run a comb through your hair.”

“Actually, Mum, I thought I’d walk around like this all day,” said Hermione, pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

Mr. Granger leaned over to Harry. “She did that one Halloween, and—”

“Dad!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Okay, okay. Just joking.” He winked at Harry, and Harry grinned.

“Mrs. Granger,” he said, holding out the letter, “this is for you.”

She took it, unfolded it, and read it with shining eyes. “Her last one, Harry?” she asking, looking up when she had done. “Are you certain?”

Harry nodded. “You said I could pick the one, and that’s the one I want you to have.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “When I get home from work today, I’d like to read the rest of them.”

“I’d give them all to you if you’d let me,” he said earnestly. 

“I won’t let you,” she said, refolding the letter. “But I think you’re very sweet.”

“I  _am_  going to give you one of the pictures in my album,” he said. “I’d like you to have one.”

“I would love to have one. Thank you, Harry.”

Mr. Granger raised his napkin to his mouth and sighed, “I should get ready for work.” Turning to Hermione, he added, “Mrs. Baker has an appointment today.”

Hermione laughed. “Oh, no!”

“I’m afraid so.” He stood up and left the kitchen, his whistle gradually fading as he ascended the stairs.

“That man,” said Mrs. Granger, shaking her head. “He’ll wake your friends.”

“He won’t wake Ron,” smiled Harry. “Trust me. So, who’s Mrs. Baker?”

Mrs. Granger and Hermione looked at each other and laughed. “She always flirts with Dad,” Hermione explained. “And Mum thinks it’s funny!”

“He always begs me to take her appointments, but I never do.” Mrs. Granger took a sip of her coffee. “I  _do_  think it’s funny. But I must say that as a result of her monthly appointments, she has excellent teeth.”

“Morning.” Ginny shuffled in and sank into a chair, looking as bleary-eyed as Hermione had.

“Good morning, Ginny,” said Mrs. Granger. “Help yourself to some breakfast.”

Harry watched as Ginny smiled at the food on the table. She had a pretty smile, and even her sleep-flattened hair was kind of cute. 

Mrs. Granger left the table and followed her husband upstairs. “She has to make sure that his tie matches,” Hermione explained when her mother had gone. “Dad is horrible with ties.”

“Ron must be getting hungry,” Harry mumbled, pushing some eggs around on his plate with his fork. His eyes slid up to see Hermione’s reaction. She put her nose in the air and tried to look nonchalant.

“If he wants breakfast, he’ll have to come and get it himself. He did yesterday.” Harry and Ginny said nothing, but exchanged an amused glance that Hermione missed entirely. “But I don’t have anything else to do,” she shrugged. Within minutes, she was piling food on a tray and pouring a tall glass of milk. “Be right back,” she called cheerfully from the door.

As soon as they heard the door upstairs, Harry and Ginny snorted with laughter. “Be right back?” Harry repeated, clutching his stomach. “Right!”

Ginny tried in vain to suppress her smiles. “I hope you haven’t been teasing them, Harry,” she said. “You promised.”

“I haven’t teased them, I swear,” said Harry breathlessly. A new wave of laughter overtook him, and he almost spilled his juice. 

Their laughter faded, and they finished their breakfast in silence. Ginny stood up and began to clear the table. Harry noticed that her pajamas were too long, and she stepped on them as she walked. He got up to help her clean the dishes. 

“Hermione’s lucky to have Ron,” he mused as they stood together at the sink.

Ginny looked up at him. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I do. What I mean is . . . Ron’s great. Hermione’s great, too . . . that’s not what I meant . . . do you know what I’m trying to say?” Harry wondered how he could have sounded any more stupid.

Ginny smiled. “Amazingly, yes.”

“He would do anything for her,” Harry continued. “I wonder if she knows that.”

“I think she does,” said Ginny softly. “Could you hand me that plate?”

Then Harry thought—Ron would do anything for  _me_. “I’m lucky, too,” he murmured. 

Ginny looked at him suddenly, as if she expected him to continue. He didn’t know what she wanted him to say, and realized that he’d disappointed her when he turned back to the dishes in silence. She seemed to recover quickly. “You mean Ron . . . of course?”

“Yeah.” Whom else would he mean?

“You should tell him,” she suggested.

“He already knows.” Of course Ron knew. What would he do without Ron? His first friend . . . his best friend? Ron meant more to him than any other person in the world, even Sirius. If he could die to save Ron, he wouldn’t need a second’s thought. 

Ginny turned off the water. “He might not. And even if he does, it’s nice to hear things like that sometimes.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.” She studied him for a moment as he dried his hands. “Tell him today, won’t you?”

“Okay,” Harry shrugged. “I don’t see the point, but I will.”

* * *

“Ron? Wake up, Ron!”

Someone was speaking to him. Ron rolled onto his side and curled up a little. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and the person was still speaking to him. He mumbled some syllables that may have come together to mean, “Go away.”

“Come on, Ron.”

He swatted his arm out, and the resulting gasp and clatter finally rushed him into consciousness. He forced his eyes open, but no one was standing in front of him. Who had been speaking to him, then? He heard some sounds coming from below him and shifted to look over the edge of the bed. 

Hermione was kneeling on the floor. Her hair . . . her hair was a sight. She was pressing a napkin against the carpet, and she had milk and food all over her pajamas. He winced. “Er . . .”

“Good morning,” she said stiffly, not looking up.

“Did I do that?”

“Yeah.”

He threw back his blanket and swung out of bed to join her on the floor. “I’m really sorry,” he said, picking up muffin crumbs. 

“It’s okay.”

“Was all this for me?” he asked sheepishly.

“No, I thought I’d eat my breakfast in here. So I could watch you sleep.”

“Really?”

She finally looked up at him, and there was a huge grin on her face. “No.”

Ron finished cleaning the carpet, while Hermione dealt with her pajamas as best she could. She set the tray of wasted food aside and smiled at him. She didn’t  _seem_  mad, but just in case—“I really am sorry,” he said again.

“Just forget about it,” she said.

He couldn’t stop staring at her hair. It was tormenting him . . . inviting comment, pleading with him to laugh at it. He needed some distraction. “Are Harry and Ginny awake?” he asked.

“Yes, they’re eating breakfast downstairs. You might as well stop staring at my hair. I know what it looks like.”

“It’s kind of intimidating,” he said, wondering how far he could go with this. “Reminds me of Devil’s Snare.”

Her lips thinned, and he was on the verge of panic when she suddenly burst into laughter. “Oh, shut up!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to take this tray downstairs. Why don’t you come down and give breakfast another try?”

“Okay,” he agreed.

She leaned closer, and he was suddenly aware of the awkward, sleepy taste in his mouth. He quickly clapped his hand over his mouth.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he spoke into his palm. “I thought you were going to . . . and I . . . never mind.”

She grinned and kissed the back of his hand. “Go brush your teeth,” she said with a wink. She had just picked up the tray and stood up when Harry walked in.

“What happened?” he asked, staring at the scattered bits of food on the tray. 

“I had an unfortunate encounter with a Whomping Willow,” Hermione explained. “Namely, Ron’s arm.” She laughed. “Is anything left downstairs?”

“Ginny and I cleaned up, but there’s a little food left. It’s covered on the table.”

“Okay, thanks.” 

Hermione left, and Ron lifted himself from the floor. He lifted his arms toward the ceiling to stretch his muscles, which were still stiff from sleep. Harry, meanwhile, fell backwards onto his bed with a sigh.

“You should wake up early tomorrow and take Hermione’s breakfast up to her,” Harry remarked.

Ron started rummaging in his trunk for some clothes. That was a great idea, but he wished he had come up with it himself. “Ginny would be in there,” he mumbled.

“So? I’m sure she’s seen someone eat breakfast before.”

Ron turned around to give Harry a withering look. “You are so thick.”

Harry only laughed. “Just a suggestion.”

“I’m going to shower,” said Ron, holding his clothes in a crushed bundle in his arms. 

“Erm, wait a minute.”

Ron turned back to Harry, who had sat up on his bed. “What is it?” he asked worriedly. Was Harry’s scar hurting? Had he gotten bad news from Sirius or Dumbledore or . . .

“Nothing bad,” Harry assured him. “I just, er, wanted to tell you something.”

Ron looked at him bemusedly, waiting. “What’s that?” he prompted finally.

“I wanted to say thanks for being my friend,” Harry shrugged. Ron felt his face and neck grow warm . . . but something in his chest did as well. It was a nice feeling. He couldn’t make himself speak, however, and was grateful when Harry continued, “You were my first friend, and . . . well, you’re my favorite person in the world, you know. Every day, I wish I could have my parents back, but, erm . . . losing you would be worse than not having them, in a way, because I never knew them, and I don’t think I could do without you.”

Utterly dumbfounded, Ron could only stand there with his mouth hanging open. Harry really thought that it would be worse to lose  _him_  now than it had been to have no parents for fourteen years? He was more important to Harry than any other person? The magnitude of Harry’s stumbling speech almost made Ron take a step backwards. He was aware that he had made some kind of noise in his throat, which Harry evidently took as a response.

“I’m really . . . and anyone who has you for a friend . . . and Hermione, because you care about her so much . . . I mean, lucky.”

Ron caught the meaning of Harry’s rambling words and continued to stand in the doorway numbly. “Thanks,” he replied. “You too.” With that, he hurried from the room, his mind a strange whirl of awkwardness and pleasure.


	10. Chapter 10

Ron ran his hand briskly through his wet hair and stepped out of the bathroom, his pajamas draped over his arm. He switched off the light and went back to the guest room, which Harry had already deserted. What had prompted Harry to say . . . well, all those things he had said? It had been great to hear, but now he would feel weird around Harry. As he threw his pajamas into his trunk, his eye fell on the wooden chess box.  

Something had been bothering him ever since Hermione had given them to him, but he had been a little distracted by . . . other things. He had promised her not to ask where or how she got them, but the questions were troubling him. He reached down and picked up the box, then stood there for a minute, running his hand over the lid before he set the box down again.

With uncertain steps, he walked to Hermione’s room and knocked. "Come in," came the voice from inside.

"Hermione, I want to ask you—" Ron stopped when the door opened to reveal his sister. "Oh, hi, Ginny. Where’s Hermione?"

"She’s downstairs talking to Harry."

"Oh. Why are you up here all alone?"

"I have some school work to finish. I can’t do it with everyone around me."

"But you told Mum that you had finished all your work."

Ginny grinned. "Yeah."

Ron smiled back. "Oh, okay." He looked around Hermione’s room, and a thought popped into his head. "Where’s Crookshanks?"

"Hermione’s great-aunt is looking after him. She loves cats—has about a million of them."

"Oh. Well, I’m going downstairs." He closed the door and headed for the stairs. He stopped, though, when he heard his friends’ voices from the living room.

"Does Ron know about it?" Harry asked.

Ron knew he shouldn’t be listening to their conversation, but he had, after all, heard his own name. Who could resist?

"I don’t think I should tell him," Hermione replied. "He would get too mad. Just the other night, he saw me reading a book about Bulgaria, and he got upset."

Did Hermione like Viktor? Why would she bother snogging him and telling him that she loved him, if she really liked Viktor? And why would Harry help her keep the secret? Harry, who had just told him that he was his best friend—the most important person to him in the world? Something definitely wasn’t right.

"Does Viktor know about Ron?" Harry asked.

Ron leaned closer.

"Of course not. I’ve only just realized that I . . . how I feel about him."

Ron felt like several Bludgers had been pounding him around the Quidditch stadium. Hermione and Harry, two of the few people he could really trust, seemed to be in this together.

"You should write to Viktor and tell him everything," came Harry’s voice from below.

 _Oh, sure, Harry. Tell him everything_.

"You think so?" Hermione asked.

_No!_

"Yes," said Harry. "Tell him today. As for Ron, he doesn’t need to know about this. It would only start a fight."

"You’re right."

Ron turned and walked back down the hall in a daze. He couldn’t stand to hear more. The air was knocked out of his lungs, and his legs felt like Flobberworms. Something must be wrong. Hermione and Harry would  _never_  do this to him. But he had heard every word; what else could they mean? They’d said what they’d said.

Not knowing what else to do, he went back to Hermione’s room and knocked. Ginny said, "Come in," and he pushed open the door.

"I’m back," he announced.

"I see that." Her smile faded quickly. "Ron, what’s wrong? You look horrible!"

He sat down beside her on the floor and began fumbling with the edge of his shirt. "Do you . . . are Harry and Hermione, erm . . . is there something they know that I don’t?"

Ginny frowned. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

"Do you think there’s anything that they would keep from me? I mean, something that would really hurt my feelings if I found out?"

"No," said Ginny firmly. "I don’t."

Of course, Ron hadn’t thought so either, until about five minutes ago. He didn’t want to believe what he thought he did, but didn’t see how he could conclude anything else. His mind searched desperately for some other explanation—there  _had_  to be one. But the more he thought, the more he realized that it was futile. Ginny was staring at him, and he knew how strangely he was acting.

"Sorry, Ginny," he muttered. "I guess I’ll let you get back to work." He left her just as suddenly as he’d come in. Head aching, he closed the door and looked up into Hermione’s face. Her hair was still as wild as before, but he couldn’t smile at it this time.

"Hey," she said.

He didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t trust himself to say anything at all, but managed to croak out, "Hey."

"I left Harry downstairs. He sent me to come and find you." She smiled at him and reached over to take his hand, but he pulled it away abruptly. "Ron?" she asked, confusion written plainly on her face. "What’s the matter with you?"

"How did you get my chessmen back?"

She shook her head. "I can’t tell you that."

"There are a lot of things you can’t tell me, aren’t there?"

"Ron, are you okay? You’re acting really weird."

"Just tell me how you got the chessmen."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. He lowered his voice and repeated, "Yes."

"Look, we can’t talk out here." Hermione spun around and led the way to the guest room, and Ron followed her inside. She shut the door and turned on him. "What is your problem?" she snapped.

Ron had been trying to control his feelings, but now found it impossible. " _My_  problem!"

"Well,  _I_  certainly don’t have one," Hermione retorted.

"I just want to know how you got those chessmen."

"You promised me that you wouldn’t ask."

She had a point, and Ron tried another approach. "Well, isn’t there something else that you need to tell me?"

"Besides the fact that you’re acting like a prat, no!"

"Nothing about a certain Quidditch player?"

"Are you talking about Harry?" asked Hermione, looking completely bemused.

"Kind of. He has something to do with this, anyway."

"With  _what_? Ron, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?"

How could she not know? He tried to keep his voice steady and calm. "I just wish that you would tell me . . . whatever it is."

Hermione threw her hands up in frustration. "Ron, can’t you tell that I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about?"

"Krum," he mumbled. "Don’t you have something to tell me about Krum?"

"Oh, is that the only thing bothering you?" She seemed relieved.

The "only thing"? She said it as if it was a little thing, as if she wasn’t hurting him deeply. "Yes, Hermione," he said softly. "That’s the  _only thing_."

"Not that it’s any of your business, but I got a letter from Viktor today, while you were in the shower."

"Not my business!" he exclaimed. "And why do you have to call him  _Viktor_?"

"First of all, it’s  _not_  your business, and secondly, I call him Viktor for the simple fact that that’s his name!"

"Are you going to reply to him?"

"Well, it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it? Besides, there’s something I need to tell him." She blushed.

"Does Harry know about the letter?"

"Yes, he was there when I got it. He thought I shouldn’t tell you about it. We agreed that you might be upset."

"That’s awfully perceptive."

"Well, you got so mad the other night when I was reading the Bulgaria book."

How could she bring that up? Considering what she was doing to him—and how coldly she was doing it—how could she bring up his gift? When he had handed the chess box to the shopkeeper, he had had no idea that things would turn out like this.

"So what, exactly, do you have to tell  _Viktor_?" he asked. Maybe now she could just say it frankly.

"That should be quite obvious. If you would stop being so thick . . ." Her face was now burning with anger.

"Oh,  _sorry_ , but it’s not obvious! I got a different impression from our . . . when we . . . all we’ve said."

She frowned. "What do you mean, a different impression?"

"Well, you . . . you made me think that you really . . ." He dropped his voice quickly. "I thought you meant all those things you said."

Hermione looked puzzled. "I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing," she said slowly. 

"We’re talking about you and Krum, aren’t we?"

"Kind of. Don’t you know what I have to tell him, Ron?" He only stared at the floor and made no reply. "I have to tell him that I think he’s great . . ."

"You don’t have to rub it in." He must have said it inaudibly—or maybe he’d only thought it. She had taken his hand.

". . . but that I care about someone else."

Ron raised his eyes to meet hers. "What?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Viktor wanted to know how I feel about him, and I have to write him to say that I feel much more strongly about  _you_."

Ron was very confused now. What had he heard, exactly? When Hermione had said, "how I feel about him," she had meant  _him_ , Ron? And when Harry had said to tell Viktor everything—he had meant that Hermione should tell Viktor about  _Ron_? He suddenly felt stupid and horrible for thinking that Harry and Hermione, of all people . . . That he had accused Hermione of . . . !

"I’m sorry!" he blurted, pulling her to him in a close hug.

"It’s okay," she said softly. She returned his hug, and suddenly everything was right. "I shouldn’t have yelled at you."

"Me neither."

"Your hair’s wet," she laughed into his shoulder. Ron wisely withheld comment on  _her_  hair.

"I’m sorry for getting mad. I thought . . . well, never mind, it doesn’t matter. And I’m sorry for asking you about the chessmen." 

There was a long silence, then she turned her head, kissed him on the cheek, and murmured, "I got them from Bill."

He pulled back from her a little. "What? I told him not to . . ."

"I know. I know all about it."

"You knew . . . the whole time?" he asked incredulously.

"The whole time," she smiled. "Right after I got your package, I got Bill’s message. He told me what really happened." She kissed his lips lightly. "How you sold your chessmen . . ." —another kiss— ". . . for me." 

He held her more tightly, still kissing her. Bill had given away the secret, but he found that he didn’t care. Partly because at the moment, he was too distracted to care, and partly because things had turned out so perfectly. Someday, he would have to thank Bill for this.

They both jumped when the door opened, and turned to see who had caught them. It was Harry, and he turned bright red. "Sorry," he mumbled quickly, stepping out.

"Wait," said Hermione. She moved away from Ron. "We’ll come downstairs with you."

Ron couldn’t see what Harry was doing, since he couldn’t drag his eyes from his socks. He didn’t know how he could ever look at Harry again, considering not only this awkward situation, but Harry’s unexpected speech. 

Harry cleared his throat. "I just came up to see what was keeping you, and, er . . . sorry."

"It’s our fault," said Hermione. Ron wondered how she could be so composed about the whole thing.

"Where’s Ginny?" Harry asked.

Ron forced himself to speak. "In Hermione’s room. Working."

"I’ll get her." Harry left quickly; apparently, Hermione’s assurances had not eased his embarrassment.

Hermione grinned at him. "That was kind of funny."

" _Funny_?" he repeated. Was this the same Hermione he had known for four years? Did she really not care at all that their best friend had just caught them snogging?

"Come on. He won’t say anything to you about it. If he wanted to tease us, he would have done it long ago. Harry’s been great about all this, and you know it."

"Yeah, that’s true." He followed her into the hall, where they were soon joined by Harry and Ginny. Ron glanced at Harry, flushed, and swiftly averted his eyes. Ginny’s mouth was tilted up at one corner; Harry had wasted no time telling her, had he?

* * *

Harry looked around at his friends—well, two of them anyway. He couldn’t look at Ron. They were all standing there stupidly, and they had a whole day ahead of them. "So . . ." he began, "what are we going to do?"

"We could go swimming," Ginny suggested. "Ron’s the only one who’s taken his shower."

"Yeah, and we don’t care about Ron, do we?" said Ron dryly.

"Hush," said Ginny.

Harry grinned. There was nothing funnier than two or more Weasley siblings in one place . . . well, Draco the ferret had been up there . . . "I’ve already taken mine, too," he said. "But I’d still like to swim."

"Swimming sounds good," Hermione chimed in. "Ron?"

"I guess."

Twenty minutes later, they were all standing in the front hall. Harry noticed that Ron was staring at Hermione, who wore a green bathing suit and matching shorts. Her enormous pile of hair was twisted around into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. He thought he saw Ron mouth the word, "Wicked," but couldn’t be sure. Not that he blamed his friend—Hermione did look very nice. Ron himself seemed to be nothing but freckled arms and legs. As for Ginny, Harry had seen her in her suit yesterday. He was used to her . . . almost.

Ron ran ahead of them and dove into the pool, making a tremendous splash. Ginny squealed when the cold water hit her bare legs. "Ron!" she exclaimed. She pinched her nose and jumped in after him.

Harry took off his glasses and threw his towel on a chair, while Hermione stepped out of her shorts. "Do you think it’s safe?" she asked, nodding her head towards the pool, where Ron and Ginny were splashing each other mercilessly in a blur of water, arms, and red hair.

Harry smiled and shrugged. "Probably not. Ladies first."

"Oh, thanks." Hermione grinned and carefully descended the steps into the pool. Ron required only a few seconds to grab her around the waist and pull her under. 

Harry laughed and jumped in, narrowly missing Ginny. Swinging his arms widely for more momentum, he moved to where Ron and Hermione were flipping around in a dangerous tangle of laughing and muffled screams. He went behind Ron and put his arms around his neck, hanging on tightly as Ron flailed his long arms.

"Thanks," said Hermione breathlessly.

Harry was about to reply, but Ron flung himself backwards, plunging both himself and Harry underwater. Having gained the advantage, Ron easily freed himself. They came up to the surface, and Harry had barely taken one breath when someone slammed into him from behind, knocking him back into Ron.

"Hey!" he yelled. He spun around to see Ginny, who was grinning at him wickedly. "All right, Miss Weasley, you asked for it." Harry started to move towards her, but Ron grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back.

The four of them continued to wrestle until, one by one, they fell back, exhausted. Ron and Ginny were the last to give up the fight. Ron gasped, "Enough, enough," and Ginny threw her arms up triumphantly. Ron made a face as Harry and Hermione cheered for Ginny.

All four of them collapsed haphazardly on the steps. "That . . . was fun," Ginny sighed.

"I’m going to need another shower," said Ron.

Harry smiled. "You can never have too many of those, Ron." A second later, Ron lunged at him and pushed him back into the water. "Just joking," he spluttered, trying to free himself. 

They were both too tired to carry on for long, and within a few minutes, they had fallen onto the steps again. From the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that Hermione was slipping her arm around Ron’s waist. He looked away quickly. When he glanced at them a few minutes later, they had separated, but Hermione was smiling at something that Ron was saying in her ear.


	11. Chapter 11

“Well, Mum, what did you think of the letters?” Hermione asked, spooning some sprouts onto her plate. Her mother and Harry had been in the living room alone for an hour before supper, going through the pile of Lily’s unanswered letters.

“I cried a little,” Mrs. Granger confessed. She turned to Harry and smiled. “I’m afraid Harry must have thought me very silly.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Harry quickly.

“I wish I’d received them,” she sighed. “Lily and I might have corresponded all those years until . . . well. Harry also gave me a picture of her and his father.”

“Can you imagine if your mum had written to Hermione’s mum from Hogwarts?” said Ron.

Mr. Granger laughed. “It certainly would have been less of a shock when we received Hermione’s letter!”

“What  _did_  you do?” Harry asked curiously.

“I was the one who opened it, naturally, since it was addressed to me,” Hermione explained. “I sort of sat there in shock for a moment.”

“Then she handed it to me,” Mrs. Granger continued, “and I read it aloud. We didn’t know what to think. We thought it might have been a joke. And we couldn’t exactly . . .  _call_  these people.”

“They sent us intructions so we could find the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley, and we just went,” said Hermione. “It took us forever to find it, and we were so scared when we first went in! But everything turned out fine.”

 “Of course, Hermione had to buy extra books, besides the ones on her list,” Mr. Granger said fondly. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “We know all about that!”

Hermione glared at Ron, but couldn’t disguise the fact that her lips were smiling. She recalled that day with perfect clarity—the way her father had shaken when he handed his money to the Gringotts goblin; the way her mother had gasped several times in Ollivander’s; the way both of them had looked on in amazement as Hermione went from shop to shop, buying a cauldron and robes and mysterious books.

They were distracted when an owl flew in and dropped a letter between Ron and Ginny. “Hi, Errol!” Ginny exclaimed. She reached for the letter, but Ron had already grabbed it. Hermione got up and put a little food aside for Errol, then went back to the table. 

“It’s just Mum telling us when they’ll be at Diagon Alley,” said Ron, handing the letter to Ginny.

“Well, we’ll have to go and meet them, of course,” said Hermione. “I can’t wait to see your parents again. Are they going the day before?”

“No,” Ginny replied, folding the letter and slipping it into her pocket, “they’re going on Saturday. The train leaves on Monday.”

“Great!” said Hermione. “That means Mum and Dad can go with us.”

They spent the next twenty minutes excitedly discussing their new supply lists and the upcoming school year. Hermione wondered if the others, like her, were hiding a significant amount of fear under their happy demeanors. She helped her mother clear the dishes, then crept upstairs to write her letter to Viktor. She didn’t want any more questions from Ron.

She sat cross-legged on her bed and pondered for a few minutes over the blank piece of parchment. When she was halfway through the difficult letter—“. . .  _developed feelings for someone else . . . so sorry . . . still like to be your friend . . ._ ”—there was a knock on her door, which produced Ron. “Hi,” she said, folding the parchment quickly.

He closed the door. “Writing to Viktor?” he asked. His voice wasn’t suspicious, or jealous, or anything other than normal. 

“Yeah.” She laid it back out and picked up her quill again. “I feel terrible. He was so nice to me, you know?”

“He always seemed nice,” Ron admitted fairly. “And he has pretty good taste, too.”

Hermione blushed. “Where are Harry and Ginny?”

“Talking downstairs. Trust me, they won’t come up here.” He grinned. 

“You’re certainly in a good mood,” she said. Ron sat down beside her, and Viktor’s letter was forgotten. “Should we get straight to the point this time?” she asked, leaning towards him.

Ron looked thoughtful. “Maybe we should talk first.”

“Talk first,” she repeated. She lifted an eyebrow.

“Just kidding,” he said, kissing her decidedly. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. “No sense wasting time.”

“No,” she agreed. “We won’t be able to do this very often at school.”

“Yes, we will.” 

“How?”

“I don’t love the smartest girl at Hogwarts for nothing,” he smiled, holding her tighter. “You’ll think of something.”

She moved away a little. “I can’t break any rules, though—not this year.”

“Why not?” he asked.

Hermione had put this off as long as possible. Now she averted her eyes and said, her face reddening, “I—I’m a prefect.”

“Wow! When did you get your letter?”

She looked up at him, trying to find the hint of sarcasm in his features, but there was none. “Five weeks ago.”

Now he frowned. “Five  _weeks_  ago? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I thought you’d make fun of me. I saw the way everyone treated Percy, and . . . I should have told you, I guess.”

“I  _will_  make fun of you,” he confessed with a grin. Then his expression became fierce. “But if anyone else tries to, they’ll be sorry!”

* * *

Diagon Alley was crowded and stifling on Saturday. Ron watched as dozens of small first-years darted around, shouting and pressing their noses against windows. The rest of his family was waiting at Flourish and Blotts. 

Mrs. Weasley threw her arms around Ginny. “Oh, thank goodness!” She reached for Ron, but he jumped out of the way.

“Mum!” he exclaimed. “It’s not like you were never going to see us again!”

“In times like these . . .” she began. Thinking better of it, she stopped and suddenly smiled. “Did you all enjoy yourselves?” she asked.

The four of them responded in a chorus of “Yes.”

“I’m just glad that you didn’t spend your last week blowing things up,” she replied, glaring at the twins.

Ron looked up at George, who winked at him. Ron grinned.

Hermione spoke up, “Mrs. Weasley, you remember my parents?”

“Oh, of course! How lovely to see you both again!” Mrs. Weasley finally released Ginny and reached over to shake their hands. Ron wondered if, someday, they would be related. The thought made him blush, and he banished it quickly.

The large group went to Gringotts together. While Hermione and her parents dealt with the goblins to change their money, Harry and the Weasleys went to their respective vaults. Again, Ron noticed as Harry opened his door only slightly, darted inside, and came out again with a bag hidden behind his robe. He shut the door quickly behind him. Ron knew that Harry felt bad about having a fortune, but there was no point in hiding it from people who already knew. All the same, he did appreciate Harry’s sensitivity—though he could never have put it in those words.

It seemed trivial and pointless to be shopping for parchment and textbooks when Voldemort was back and gathering followers. As they stood at the counter at Flourish and Blotts, Ron shifted his heavy books in his arms and wondered how rich Miranda Goshawk must be.

When they finished, Mrs. Weasley invited the Grangers to join her for a drink in the Leaky Cauldron, which they readily accepted. As they walked away, Ron caught a snatch of what his mum was saying—“. . . wish Arthur could be here . . .”

Fred and George leapt at the opportunity to run off by themselves, leaving Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny alone once more. Ron wished that Ginny had gone with them. She wasn’t part of their group, and he wanted to talk to Harry and Hermione, not his little sister. They all sat down outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, where Harry hurried in to pay for everything before Ron could stop him.

The ice cream was delicious, as always. Harry had his head buried in a new Quidditch strategy book. Ron wanted to talk to Hermione, but she was too busy talking to Ginny. Again, Ron wished that Ginny had gone off with Fred and George. He hoped she didn’t plan to tag along behind them all year.

Ron suddenly spotted Cho Chang strolling alone. He elbowed Harry and whispered, “There’s Cho.”

Harry snapped the book shut. “Where?” he asked eagerly.

Ron fought the impulse to tease him, forcing himself to remember Harry’s consideration regarding him and Hermione. He pointed subtly to Cho, who was now peering at some owls in a shop window across the street. “Go talk to her,” he prodded. He gave Harry a small push. “Go on.”

Ron watched as Harry shuffled across the street and tapped Cho on the shoulder. She turned and smiled at him, and now Harry was saying something. Ron grinned and got the attention of Hermione and Ginny.

“Look at him,” he said, motioning to Harry and Cho. “Mad about her, he is. Not that I blame him. She’s good-looking, and she’s brilliant at Quidditch.”

“Those  _are_  the two most important qualities in a girl, aren’t they?” Hermione asked sardonically. 

Ron wondered if she  _enjoyed_  fighting with him. He got the distinct impression that she did, and replied, “Well, one out of two is acceptable, so don’t worry.”

Hermione smiled. “Since I don’t play Quidditch, I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

They laughed, and Ron turned to ask Ginny if she had to offer good looks or Quidditch skill. But she was watching Harry and Cho, who were now in the middle of what seemed to be an animated conversation. She seemed to be thinking the same thing he was thinking, so he said, “Looks like Harry’s got a girlfriend, eh?”

Ginny started. “What? . . . Oh.”

“Cho isn’t right for him,” said Hermione softly.

Ron turned back to her. “Why not?” he asked defensively, as if Cho were his sister.

Hermione shrugged. “Harry should be with . . . someone else.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Cho,” Ron frowned. He was beginning to wonder if Hermione knew something he didn’t. Maybe Harry  _did_  like a girl, but he had told Hermione and not his own best friend.

“Of course not,” Hermione replied hastily. “I like Cho. She just isn’t the girl that I would pick for Harry.”

Ron crossed his arms. “Why, do you have someone else in mind?”

“Ginny, did you sign up for Muggle Studies?” Hermione asked, changing the subject so abruptly that Ron tilted his head to the side and stared at her.

“Yeah,” Ginny replied, finally looking away from Harry and Cho. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A little dazed, Ron directed his attention across the street, where Harry and Cho were still talking. Ron’s ice cream was suddenly whipped away, and he looked up into the mocking face of Fred.

“Did ickle Ronniekins lose ‘is ice keem?”

Ron jumped up and faced Fred. He was now taller than the twins, and Fred’s advantage instantly disappeared. “Give that back,” said Ron.

“Fine,” said Fred, pushing it back towards him. “Anyway, hurry up and finish.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said George, “sweet little Ronnie needs some new dress robes.”

Visions of lace and humiliation passed before him, and he said fiercely, “No way.”

“Sorry, but you don’t have a choice in the matter. Tell him, Harry.”

Ron started and turned around. Sure enough, Harry was back. He gave Harry a you-better-side-with-me-on-this-one-or-I’ll-knock-you-out look. 

Harry only shrugged. “You’ll probably need them, Ron. Besides, new ones will look much better than the ones you have already, won’t they? And what if we have another Ball?”

What  _if_  they had another Ball? He thought of Hermione, and how pretty she had looked last year . . . She deserved someone in nice dress robes. Of course, Hermione also deserved a lot more than a thick, poor boy in ragged robes. What she deserved was a Triwizard champion, an international Quidditch star who lived in the library and put up with giggling girls just to see  _her_. Dress robes seemed like a small thing in comparison. 

“Ron, any time you feel like answering, really.”

He looked again at Fred. “ _Fine_.” He finished his ice cream and stood up, glancing quickly at Hermione. She smiled at him, and the prospect of dress robes didn’t seem so bleak. “Let’s just hurry,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“Now, Ron,” said George. “It takes a long time to find the perfect dress robes. We don’t want anything second-rate, now do we?” They each took one of his arms and steered him down the street towards Madam Malkin’s. “You have to impress your girlfriend, after all.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he muttered, struggling to get loose.

“You better be glad Hermione didn’t hear you say that,” said Fred. 

“Shut up.” Ron was now in a thoroughly bad mood. 

They stepped into Madam Malkin’s, and Ron was relieved to see that they were the only ones there at the moment. “How are you paying for this?” he hissed.

“Mum’s making us use some of our joke shop money,” George replied.

Ron frowned. “But you lost—”

“Hi, Madam Malkin!” said Fred jovially.

“Hello, dears,” she replied. “What can I do for you?”

“This fine little man here needs some dress robes,” Fred answered, rubbing his hand briskly over the top of Ron’s head. Ron fought the desire to punch both of them and run away.

“The best you’ve got,” George added. “Go on, Ron, don’t be shy.”

“I. am. not. shy,” Ron muttered. He was glad to escape them, though, and followed Madam Malkin into the back. Oh no, he was wrong. There  _were_  people here. At least he didn’t know any of them.

Madam Malkin put him on a stool and started asking questions as she pinned. “What color would you like?”

“Pink,” said a twin. Ron looked up and groaned. Fred and George had followed them.

“I don’t know, George,” said Fred, raising his hand to support his chin thoughtfully. “I’m thinking more of a lilac color. I’m thinking masculine, yet feminine. I’m thinking Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Madam Malkin smiled up at Ron. “Lilac, dear?”

“No,” he mumbled.

She stood up, leaned in, and said softly, “I thought not. Older brothers, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s just have a bit of fun, then, shall we?” 

Ron met her eyes suddenly. They were twinkling, and there was a broad smile on her face.

“Er, okay,” said Ron.

She winked. “Just trust me, and try on whatever I give you.”

Ron glanced over her shoulder and saw that Fred and George were straining to hear. He looked back at Madam Malkin and fought a smile. “All right.”

She returned with several robes draped over her arm. The first she offered was an orange robe patterened hideously with toads and snitches. “This is an  _excellent_  choice,” she said loudly. She offered it to Ron, and he swung it around his shoulders.

He grinned. “I really like it,” he said excitedly, examining the ugly robe in the mirror.

“Ron,” said Fred, “er . . . don’t mean to intrude or anything, but erm . . .”

“I want this one,” said Ron, putting his hands on his hips and pretending to admire himself.

“Patience, patience,” Madam Malkin cooed. “Take the time to try our other selections.” She took back the orange robe and handed him a bogie-colored one with pink ruffles at the neck. Ron bit his tongue against the roar of laughter that threatened to escape. He wished Harry could be here for this.

“Now  _that’s_  what I call a dress robe!” he exclaimed, slinging it around himself. The other people around him were staring.

George cleared his throat. “Erm. Ron?”

Madam Malkin offered him robe after robe, and Ron praised each one more than the last. Fred and George were shifting uncomfortably, making disgusted faces. A lilac robe, as they had jokingly suggested—but decorated with little bells on the ends of the sleeves. A robe that continually changed into all the colors of the rainbow. A brown robe patterned with flobberworms. Ron wondered if Madam Malkin made these for fun. No one would actually buy them, would they?

“Which one will you have, dear?” she asked.

Ron pretended to think carefully, then pointed. “The flobberworms,” he replied.

“Wise decision,” she said. I’ll just wrap this for you and join you in the front, shall I?” Leaning closer, she whispered, “I’m thinking dark blue to complement your complexion, and no trimmings.”

Ron nodded, still forcing himself not to burst into laughter. He hopped off the stool and walked to the front with Fred and George. “I can’t believe my luck!” he sighed. “No one else will have robes like that.”

“I hope not,” Fred muttered. “That thing you bought . . . well, it must be the ugliest piece of clothing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“ _You_  don’t have to pay for it,” said Ron slyly. “Oh wait—you  _do_.”

“Think of all the Ton Tongue Toffee that will be denied the world, just so you can make your girlfriend faint when she sees you adorned in flobberworms,” said George.

Madam Malkin joined them and handed Ron his package. She winked at him and swept away. Fred shook his head. “I can’t believe you, Ron.”

They found the others, who were still waiting at Florean Fortescue’s. Mrs. Weasley and the Grangers had not yet returned. Harry smiled at them. “Well?” he said. “Let’s see them, then.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” said George, glancing at Hermione. 

“What do you mean, George?” said Ron. “I can’t  _wait_  to show them.” He started untying the package.

“Before Ron gets these out,” said Fred, “I just want to tell everyone that . . . dress robes like these have never been beheld in the wizarding world.” 

Ron freed his robes and looked down at Madam Malkin’s excellent choice. He smiled. “Okay,” he said loudly. “On the count of three. One . . .”

“Ginny, shut your eyes,” said George quickly.

“Two . . .”

“Ron, I don’t think . . .” said Fred.

“Three!” Ron whirled around and held the fine robe in front of himself. He looked sideways at Fred and George, whose mouths were hanging open in disbelief.

“Oh, how beautiful!” Ginny exclaimed. “Those are  _really_  nice, Ron.”

Harry was smiling with quiet satisfaction, while Hermione had turned red.

Ron flushed as well and quickly moved to stuff the robe back into the package. As he did so, he noticed that Madam Malkin had also given him the flobberworm robe. He decided then that he would love her for the rest of his life.

* * * 

Harry lowered the lid of his trunk and closed it. He looked once more around the guest room to make sure that nothing was left behind.

“Harry! Come on!” Ron shouted from below. He heard a rumbling up the stairs, and Ron was in the room the next second. “Need a hand?”

“Won’t hurt,” said Harry as he and Ron lifted opposite ends and dragged the trunk downstairs.

Hermione was standing at the door holding Crookshanks. “Harry and Ron, you can go with Dad. Ginny and I will go with Mum.”

“Actually,” said Harry quickly, “is it okay if I go with your mum?”

Hermione looked puzzled. “I guess so. Ginny and I can ride with Dad just as well.”

“Hey!” Ron exclaimed. “Who says that Ginny has to move too?”

Harry had been thinking the same thing. Surely Ron and Hermione wouldn’t mind  _terribly_  if they had to ride with each other. And he himself didn’t so much mind riding with Ginny.

“All right, then,” Hermione said with a blush. Ron took Harry’s trunk and followed Hermione to the cars, where the Grangers and Ginny were already inside waiting. 

Harry quickly pulled the bundle of his mother’s letters from inside his robes and lay them on the table right inside the door. He had read them and enjoyed them and learnt a little about his mother. She was more real to him, since he discovered more about her life before Hogwarts, before James Potter, before Voldemort. And these letters belonged rightfully to her friend. He lay his hand on them briefly, as if he couldn’t quite make himself leave them behind.

“Harry?”

He looked up suddenly. It was Ginny. “Coming,” he mumbled.

But she was looking at the pile of letters on the small table. “You’re leaving them?” she asked incredulously.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything else except, “Mrs. Granger asked me to lock the door.” Harry walked out, and Ginny turned the key in the lock. They reached the car, and Harry sat in the back to allow Ginny the front.

Mrs. Granger and Ginny chatted all the way to the station, and Harry was content to listen. He was too busy thinking of his mother’s letters sitting on Mrs. Granger’s table. Yes, he had done the right thing. He was sure of it. Another thing was on his mind, though. Something he’d managed effectively to forget for the past week. Voldemort was back, and Hogwarts would be a much different place. The Hufflepuff Quidditch team would need a new player . . .

“. . . amazing how much Lily resembled you when she was younger,” Mrs. Granger was saying. “And we called Harry’s grandmother ‘Ginny,’ you know.”

Harry flushed, thankful that he was in the back where no one could see him. That didn’t matter, did it? So there were some coincidences connecting him to Ginny. Well, there was a little more than that. 

“What a summer it’s been,” Mrs. Granger continued, sighing, “finding Lily.”

**the end**


End file.
